The flight of the Imp
by John Spangler
Summary: Tyrion Lannister dies for a cruel twist of fate, during the way to the Eyrie. What happens then? Read and find out.
1. Prologue

**The flight of the Imp**

 **Prologue: Tyrion**

 _"He is a bigger man than he seems, I think."_

 _ **-Garlan Tyrell**_

Someone had once told him that, when you are about to die, your entire life passes before your eyes. From the most important events, to the smallest joys and pains of your daily life, and all in a few seconds.

 _All bullshit_ , thought Tyrion as he fell. _Whoever said that must have been a fool or simply drunk. All I can see is the sky and the rocks. And the tree on the edge of the precipice. Shame I didn't see that, though._

If only that seven-times-damned Stark woman had armed him. Tyrion wasn't a fighter, he'd never been in a real battle, but at least with some kind of weapon he could have tried to do something. He could have faced the mountain clansmen. But Catelyn Stark had not trusted him. And so he had been forced to hide somewhere, like Marillion. He'd chosen a nearby tree, one that was big enough and surrounded by bushes. He'd thought he could stay there and wait for the fight to end, whoever won.

But instead of a safe hiding place, he'd found out that the bushes and the tree were in fact already hiding something else: a precipice. He had tried to grab on to a branch, and for a brief moment he had even hoped he'd be able to survive to tell someone about this little misadventure of his. Unfortunately, a few seconds later the branch had snapped under his weight.

And so it was that he found himself falling to his death, the sounds of the battle between Catelyn Stark's party and the mountain clansmen echoing in the distance.

Tyrion sighed. Why did it have to end like this? As if his life hadn't been shitty enough. _This is not how I wanted to die_. He had wanted to end his days as an old man, in his own bed. With a belly full of wine and a maiden's mouth around his cock. Not in a forgotten corner of the Vale, falling from a precipice toward some ugly-looking rocks where he would undoubtedly get all of his bones broken.

 _Gods, what a shitty way to die..._


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

 _"No man sheds Lannister blood with impunity."_

 _ **-Tywin Lannister**_

 **Catelyn**

As the ship slowly left Gulltown behind, Catelyn couldn't help but think again of her sister.

 _Lysa, what happened to you?_

Her uncle had warned her that Lysa had changed, had told her about all the hardships she'd endured. The stillborn babes, the miscarriages, and recently her lord husband's death. She had expected to find a changed woman, both physically and mentally. Instead, what she had found was a complete stranger.

How had it come to this? When they were young maidens, she and Lysa had had their share of quarrels, as siblings are wont to do, but they had always made peace. They had always helped each other, even after what had happened with Petyr. She had hoped to find an ally to help her son in the incoming war against House Lannister. The martial prowess of the Vale knights was legendary, and with them Robb would surely win.

Instead, Lysa had flat-out refused to call the banners.

Catelyn had been deeply hurt by her sister's refusal, even though she didn't show it. She was a Tully, and for a Tully family was the most precious thing in the world. It came before everything, as their house words said. Family, duty, honor. And yet, Lysa had discarded them as if they were nothing more than a mummer's words in a farce.

She had tried over and over again to convince her. She had even tried to appeal to her duty as Lady of the Vale. For even though they had not directly killed Tyrion Lannister, they were still somewhat responsible for his death. And Tywin Lannister was not the kind of man to let such a thing pass. The Old Lion was renown for his ruthlessness towards the enemies of his House. And as soon as the news about the death of his son reached him, he would undoubtedly turn his gaze upon the Vale.

But even that hadn't been enough to convince Lysa.

 _"Let him come!"_ she had said. _"The Bloody Gate stopped any enemy army that has ever tried to invade the Vale! No one could ever hope to reach us up here, in the Eyrie."_

She sighed. Such stubborness...Lysa had taken after their father, in that regard. _Shame she didn't take his loyalty to the family, too._

Suddenly, she felt footsteps coming from somewhere behind her.

"Think of her no more, little Cat." said a familiar voice.

She turned. Her uncle, the Blackfish, was looking at her with sympathetic eyes.

"How do you know I was thinking of Lysa?"

He smiled. "Even a blind man would notice it." He stepped closer to her and pulled her in a tight hug. "It's useless to dwell on what has already happened."

Catelyn hugged him back and smiled. Her uncle had always been there for her, ever since she was born, to the point that she considered him almost like a second father. He had comforted her after her mother's death, had taken care of her, Lysa and Edmure when Lord Hoster was absent. And now, he had even resigned his position as Knight of the Bloody Gate in order to help her.

Thank the gods for Uncle Brynden, she thought. He and Ned were very similar in that regard. Both men were utterly loyal to their family and solemn-faced, often considered surly and cold by other people, but deep down they had a warm and kind heart. If only there were more men like them, she was sure that the world would be a better place.

They stayed like that for some time, surrounded only by the sounds of the sea. Then Brynden broke the hug. "Better?" he asked.

She nodded. "Thanks, Uncle." His warm embrace had once again made her feel safe.

"Good." He stroked her cheek. "Now do yourself a favour, and go back to bed. You need to rest, and the voyage to White Harbor is long." he said.

Catelyn followed her uncle's advice and went back to her cabin.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Kevan**

They hanged the innkeep soon after their arrival at the crossroads inn. The fat, red-toothed woman had allowed Catelyn Stark to take Tyrion, and therefore was responsible for his death. That was one of the first things Tywin ordered after dismounting from his horse. Kevan gladly executed the order, having his men build a gibbet and then hanging the woman. He watched as she kicked and screamed and then finally died, and then joined his brother in the common room of the inn.

"She is dead." he said, sitting at the table Tywin had chosen. His brother simply nodded, only pouring ale from a flagon into a cup in front of him. The look on his face was darker than usual. It was the look of a man ready to kill all of his enemies, a look that promised revenge. Kevan hadn't seen him like this since the days of the Reyne-Tarbeck rebellion.

Someone else may have mistaken that look for that of a father mourning his beloved son, but Kevan knew that was not the case. He knew his brother more than anyone else alive. He wasn't angry about Tyrion's death in itself. He was angry about the insult done to House Lannister. In fact, he was sure that Tywin was secretely relieved, now that he knew his dwarf son wouldn't be annoying him anymore.

As for himself, Kevan had been deeply saddened by the news of Tyrion's death. He was fond of his nephew, and unlike Tywin, he had always tried to be kind to him. But, like Tywin, he too desired revenge for Tyrion's death. And revenge they would get. For, as anyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew, a Lannister always paid his debts.

The inkeep was just the first, others would follow. Catelyn Stark, for kidnapping Tyrion. And her sister, too, the Lady of the Eyrie. If the Arryns had taken proper care of the clans of savages living on the Mountains of the Moon, as they should have, maybe things would have gone differently.

And speaking of the Vale, ever since they had received the news about Tyrion's death, Tywin had yet to say anything about what he intended to do with them. So, Kevan asked him.

"I have thought about it, Kevan." his brother answered. "However, for now we will just have to ignore the Vale."

Kevan looked at him curiously. "Ignore..."

Tywin silenced him with a gesture of his hand. "The Vale is extremely difficult to invade." he said. "If we wanted to attack it by land, we would be forced to pass through the Bloody Gate. Which is one of the best strongholds of the realm, and there is a good reason behind that name."

Kevan nodded. He knew his history well. Over thousands of years, countless armies had tried to enter the Vale and conquer it. None had succeeded. They had all been smashed to pieces before the Bloody Gate.

Tywin took a sip from the cup and continued. "If we left the Riverlands right now to attack the Vale, we would only waste time and resources in a futile siege. And our enemies would surely take advantage of this to attack us from the rear."

"We could always try a naval invasion." suggested Kevan.

"That would be a good idea, but it would require time to be properly planned." He paused. "Besides, we can't afford to fight a war on two fronts. We need our ships and our men right here. So, as I said earlier, the Vale will have to wait." He took the flagon and poured the rest of the ale into another cup, which then gave to Kevan.

Kevan thanked him. As always, Tywin was right. Attacking the Vale while they were still busy fighting the riverlords, with the Stark host headed southward, would be like committing suicide. It was better to focus their attention on the war in the Riverlands. However, he couldn't help but wonder if Tywin would decide differently, had Jaime been killed instead of Tyrion. Perhaps yes, he thought. Jaime is his favorite son. That was another one of the things that differentiated him from Tywin. Kevan loved all of his children.

"Make no mistake, Kevan. Once we have dealt with the Starks and Tullys, we will take care of the Arryns, too. It is just a matter of time." his brother finally said, in a voice that, somehow, managed to send a cold chill down Kevan's spine. "A Lannister's death cannot go unpunished." he added.

Kevan just nodded and drank the ale.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Jaime**

Ever since they were children, Jaime had always been very protective toward Tyrion. He treated him with kindness and respect, unlike Cersei or their father Tywin. He did not hate him for their lady mother's death, or for being born a deformed dwarf. That was something for which Tyrion couldn't be blamed. In truth, Jaime loved his little brother, if somewhat less intensely than he did his sister Cersei.

When the rumors about Tyrion's death in the Vale trickled into the Westerlands, at first he could not believe it. It just seemed too absurd. Then the ravens came, all bearing the same message. His brother was dead. Eventually, with near a dozen such messages arrived in the rookery, he was forced to accept the truth of what had transpired.

 _Tyrion is dead._

Jaime never would forget the night he received the first letter from the Bloody Gate, from some knight who had dared not sign his name on the letter. Jaime had dared not believe it. He remembered how he had paced in his bedchamber that night, whispering to himself, wondering to himself if the words were true or not. He had done that ever night since then, every time, repeating the words to himself until he finally collapsed into bed. Tyrion was dead.

Cersei undoubtedly was pleased back in King's Landing, but not Jaime. He was furious, like he had never been before. And there was only one way to calm his fury. Only one way to avenge Tyrion...

He would look for the people responsible for his death and he would make them pay with their blood. Lannister swords would make the Red Fork bleed, he had promised to himself.

That had been the only thing on his mind as he fought alongside his men on the hills below the Golden Tooth, and from there all the way near Riverrun, where he was now. The riverlords fought fiercely, but Jaime and his men had cut through them like an axe through ripe cheese, putting them to rout. They fought like the Warrior himself, slaying riverman after riverman with the vigor of lions.

The initial charge of mounted Westermen had left them reeling in the reeds sprouting from the Tumblestone and Red Fork; so close were they to the castle of their lord, Hoster Tully. A boy in black and red tried desperately to raise his unwieldy pike at Jaime until a fresh wedge of horsemen led by Lord Tytos Brax surged past and swallowed him under their hooves. Jaime spurred his horse forwards to join them.

The remainder of the battle could be called little more than a slaughter. Most rivermen took their chances at being trout and jumped into the clouded waters of the Red Fork, where Banefort archers filled them with arrows. Others withdrew into Riverrun over the drawbridge with Tytos Blackwood, where a hundred of Hoster Tully's personal retainers momentarily halted their pursuers with a ragged shieldwall. They held… until a renewed surge of Westermen finally broke them and the formation shattered.

It was at nightfall that Edmure Tully was finally brought before Jaime. The men, it seemed, had taken their time in bringing the young Tully to him, for the man's legs from the knees down were caked with mud. Jaime's fingers absentmindedly tapped his sword. He would have wanted nothing more than to kill the bastard then and there to avenge his brother, but his father's orders stayed his hand.

Hours spent pursuing the surviving rivermen had taken their toll on him, but now, seeing the damned woman's brother, sent a renewed surge of hot blood through his veins.

There was a moment of silence between the two of them as the Tully heir recognized him. Evidently none of the men who had dragged his knees through the mud of both rivers had not told him who they meant to bring him to.

 _Or he was a fool, of course_ , Jaime thought. Perhaps both.

"Kingslayer..." Ser Edmure finally said, a defiant look on his face. "I was wondering where you were when your men found me." Jaime stood up from his chair but said nothing, his face darkened. The Tully glared up at him. "Well? What are you waiting for? Kill me and be done for it!"

Killing him...Jaime would do it gladly. Father, however, had ordered him to leave the highborn captives alive, so that they could be held as hostages. Tywin had emphasized the word alive...

The heir to Riverrun would make for a very valuable hostage, indeed. But... this man was kin to the very woman who had kidnapped Tyrion. The woman was responsible for his death. Why should this man be spared, after his sister as good as slew Jaime's little brother?

 _Father's orders... he would want Ser Edmure alive..._ whispered a voice in his head. Jaime paid it no heed.

Tully seemed to sense his hesitation. "What is it, Kingslayer?" Kingslayer... how he despised the label. How everyone, from the king to the lowest beggar used it, to insult him... To remind him of what he had done, what he had been. The worst sin a knight with a white cloak about his shoulders could ever commit. If only they knew the truth, they would understand. Tyrion was one of the few who ever respected him... who loved him. Who did not need an explanation to understand him...

"Can't you kill a man but from the back?" Tully continued. "Yes, yes, that must be it. You Lannisters cannot kill unless it is an old man who has lost his wits! Or a poor boy who cannot even walk, like your brother tried to do..."

Jaime drew his sword.

The Kingslayer stepped over the blood-soaked grass and stood over the heir of Riverrun. Ser Tully refused to shrink before him, patiently awaiting the killing stroke. It did not come.

"Do it, Kingslayer... A brother for a brother." Edmure's voice was steeped with disgust. Perhaps he was even smiling. The mud and shadows across the man's face made it difficult to tell. Jaime raised the blade high. The keen steel edge looked golden in the torchlight. The guardsmen forced Edmure's head down and exposed his neck for the cut. A brother for a brother. Then the blade fell.

He beheaded Ser Edmure with a single stroke. The young trout's body fell to the ground a moment later, followed a moment later by the head. Warm blood splattered over his golden armor and made a puddle at his feet.

"For Tyrion," whispered Jaime, and then spat on the corpse.

 _ **AN:**_ _The next chapter is being edited and will be posted as soon as it's ready. After that, future chapters will be posted every two weeks._


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"My lady, the realm has not seen such a victory since the Field of Fire. I vow, the Lannisters lost ten men for every one of ours that fell."

 **-Theon Greyjoy**

 **The Smalljon**

Many things could be said about the Umbers of Last Hearth. Like that they drank a little too much, sometimes. Jon was not ashamed to admit it was true. They loved their wine and mead as much as the Manderlys of White Harbor loved their feasts. But really, any actual man worthy of the name loved drinking. And the Umbers were real men.

It could also be said often that they were violent men, who always solved their disputes by the fist, rather than the honeyed and commonly insincere way of diplomacy. That, too, was true, to his pride, of course. Living in the North, especially in the lands closer to the Wall, was never easy. The cold was a constant companion of their days and nights, much like the threat of wildling raids. They could not waste their time with fancy manners or tourneys like the Southrons did. And if they lacked for fancy swordsmanship, they certainly made up for it with experience.

But one thing could not be said about the men and women of House Umber: that they lacked for loyalty. Since time immemorial, the Umbers had always stood staunchly at the side of House Stark of Winterfell in the face of any enemy. The Red Kings of the Dreadfort, before they were made to bend the knee to Winterfell. The Andal invaders from across the Shivering Sea. The Ironborn from the west. The wildlings from beyond the Wall, undoubtedly their most hated, and common foe. The Southron kingdoms, back when Westeros was still a divided continent. And more recently, the Mad King and his ravening dogs.

It never mattered who they had to fight, for House Umber would always answer the call to war. Always.

These were the thoughts of Jon Umber as he proudly rode his horse. He bore his father's name, and in order to differentiate the two of them, people called him the Smalljon. But he was by no means a small man. He was nearly as tall as his father, the Greatjon, and likely to grow even taller as the years went on. He was a fierce and strong warrior, and because of this he had been chosen, along with numerous highborn warriors, to become the battle companion of Robb Stark, who they had taken to calling the Young Wolf. They were mostly northmen, with the exception of some of the rivermen who had joined their host after crossing the Twins.

Jon shared the typical northern mistrust of the southrons but he was willing to fight alongside them if they were out to kill Lannisters or Targaryens. The only southron whose company he actually enjoyed, and held his respected, was Lady Stark, and her uncle, Ser Brynden the Blackfish. His battle prowess was held in high regard in all of the Seven Kingdoms. Jon looked forward to seeing him fight, if not against Jaime Lannister, of course. He would be sorely missed.

The other exception was Dacey Mormont, heir to Bear Island, and the only of Stark's battle retainers to be a woman. She rode close to Jon's left, on a sturdy grey garron. Her close presence gladdened him, for seeing her fight in a real battle would be a sight to behold, indeed. For though she was a woman, she was as strong a warrior as any of the others were. She had to be, else she would have died years ago. The men and women of Bear Island were hardy folk. The blood of warriors beyond count had been passed down the generations, for Bear Island had never known peace, from ironborn, or wildling. They were indeed much like the Umbers.

Besides, she was nice to look at. It was a welcome change from the massive beards covering his companions' cheeks, and the enormous flagons that drenched them with strong drinks known only to merrymaking.

He took a glance at Dacey, who noticed and gave a smile in return. The gesture from her warmed his heart. She really is a pretty woman. Maybe...

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden sound of men screaming, soon followed by the blast of a warhorn, then another, then another one...

"The Lannisters must have arrived earlier than we expected." commented Dacey. "Not that it matters, though. We will kill them all the same." Their other companions nodded. Afternoon or evening, it made no difference, really. What mattered was the element of surprise, not the lights in the sky.

From the front of their formation, he saw Robb Stark unsheathe his iron blade and point it downhill. "WINTERFELL!" he shouted, and the glint of a thousand swords newly drawn looked like the stars of night. And at the blowing of more horns, the entire body of horsemen surged down the slope.

Jon hastened to reach the front of the line, along with Dacey Mormont. "Ready to face the lions?" he shouted over the sound of a thousand horses.

"Ready enough, Smalljon," she answered, grinning savagely. For a moment, Jon pitied the Lannisters. They really did not know what was coming for them. "See you after the battle, Umber." she continued, and then off she went bellowing war cries. Her steed carried her forwards swiftly, leaving him in the dust with the other men astride horses of lesser brood.

Jon smiled under his great-helm. That was the kind of woman he liked. Maybe, after the battle was done, they could spend some time together and...get to know each other better. But such activities would have to wait. He had lions to kill. "LAST HEARTH!" he bellowed as they neared the enemy, swords held high for the begin of the killing.

After that, it was a cacophony of typical war clamors. The scrape of steel against steel. The thud of swords on wooden shields. The hiss of arrows and the panicked screaming of countless horses and men. Jon killed any man who didn't bear a sigil from the North or the Riverlands. Lions, unicorns, shells. All fell under the might of his longsword. Others were trampled under the hooves of his steed; Jon had made a sport of killing the horse first, to watch the fool fighting him suddenly tumble to the ground before he was killed as well.

A lucky slash across his face stung his cheeks, the salt from his sweat mingling with the blood trickling from the wound. Jon clenched his teeth and kept fighting. Men had survived worse cuts than this, and he had no intention of fleeing battle like a coward.

All around him, men fought or threw down their swords, but mercy was not to be found for anyone. He tried to look for Dacey Mormont, but she was nowhere to be found. He had little reason to worried, though. She could take care of herself as much as anyone. Across the valley, he saw the Kingslayer himself, golden armor silvered by the moonlight, hastening his white steed towards a giant man with a beard. It was his father.

Time seemed to slow as Jon watched the two men cross blades, testing one another. He saw his father trying repeatedly to kill his opponent, only for the Kingslayer to turn every blow aside, and with a single slash, cut down his horse. Jon's father deftly escaped being pinned by his steed, and cut the Kingslayer's horse in half with a brutal strike of his own, sending Lannister tumbling to the ground. As Jaime Lannister struggled to rise, the Greatjon charged him, smashed his sword against the whoreson's chestplate, and rushed in, mailed fists raised to strike, sword in hand.

And then, Jon saw something he had hoped never to see. Something that no son should have to see, and that would come to haunt his sleep until his last day.

He saw the Kingslayer suddenly rise from his knees, and plunge his golden sword into Father's chest, killing him.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Jaime**

"FATHER!"

Jaime didn't turn toward the source of the voice, nor did he care to consider about the possible danger represented by the son of some man he had just killed. Although he had been killing northmen and rivermen alike ever since his forces had entered the woods, his real target was a single man. No, not a man. A boy. A boy who would never grow to manhood, not if Jaime could find him.

He looked around himself in search of the Stark boy. Where in seven hells is he? All he could see was the trees, and some angry northmen slowly encircling him. He swore. He had to leave now, or else he would be surrounded by enemies and would not be able to exact his vengeance. But...wait, is that...yes, that's him. There he is!

Robb Stark was coming toward him, flanked by scores of northmen. Jaime remembered how young he was, almost half his own age. He is just a boy playing a man's part. He noticed that he now wore a beard, which, while making him look like the boy's uncle, remained too short to pass for that of an older man.

They will share the same fate, he thought to himself. But he could not kill him like that, surrounded by his men at the left and right. They would slay him before he even had a chance of getting anywhere near the Stark boy. He had to think of something else. Then he had an idea.

"STARK!" he shouted.

The wolf pup and his lordly retainers halted and looked at him.

"Are you too afraid to fight me yourself? Come and face me like a man!" Stark seemed to hesitate for a moment.

"Unless you are too craven, of course." Jaime added.

The boy looked hurt, and cleared his throat. "Stay here." he said. "I will take care of him personally." His men looked at him, flabbergasted, but obeyed their master.

Jaime smiled. The barb had stung him too much to be unheeded. Stark was still a boy, eager to prove his worth to his bannermen. Some protested and tried to stop him, but he silenced them with a look. He dismounted and started walking toward Jaime, sword in hand and determination in his eyes. Jaime got down from his own horse, ready to fight. He knew the northmen would kill him after the fight, but he did not care. He did not fear death. But he would kill anyone who stood in his path of vengeance. He would get his revenge for Tyrion, even if he had to die for it. Jaime's only regret was that he could not kill that Catelyn bitch first.

The Stark boy attacked first, aiming for his sword arm. Jaime anticipated this by striking first, sending his opponent reeling backwards. He then charged forward, and their swords met in a clash of steel.

The boy was good, Jaime had to give him that, but he was just a boy, as green as a spring leaf. Jaime's prowess was unmatched, and he had more experience than any swordsman in the North. Thoughts of Tyrion sent him forward with such a fury that no living man could withstand.

After they exchanged some blows, Jaime suddenly lunged forwards, caught the boy's sword under his arm, and impaled Stark on the shoulder, just missing his neck. The wound did not kill, but it was enough to make him scream in pain and drop his sword from a suddenly limp hand. Red blood flowed from the gash as Jaime tackled the screaming young pup to the ground, driving his sword in still deeper.

The northmen around him spurred their horses at him from all directions, shouting curses at him. Jaime had to act before they reached him. He pressed hard on the boy's wounded shoulder and wrenched his golden sword out with the other hand. The Stark boy screamed again, his cries of agony almost louder than the sound of the impending hooves.

"Oh, shut up, boy," Jaime said, raising his blade for the final blow, the battle cries ringing in his ears like thunder. "Say hello to your tree gods for me."

He managed to hit the wolf pup again, this time right on his face. The boy screamed again. But suddenly, before Jaime could drive the blade any deeper, something jumped on him, seemingly out of nowhere. It was something heavy, a whirlwind of grey. He lost his balance and landed on his back. After a moment of disorientating pain, he looked up and his eyes widened in shock. Standing on Jaime's body, paws planted firmly on his chest, was the biggest wolf he had ever seen.

This...this must be Stark's pet wolf, thought Jaime. Like the one that bit Joffrey. He remembered it from his visit at Winterfell with the royal party, so long ago, but now it had grown to a greater size than any hound could aspire to. Blood was streaked all over its fur, especially at its paws and slavering red mouth, where teeth as long and sharp as spearheads loomed over him like a beast from the seven hells. Its eyes had fire in them, and as it growled at him, Jaime tried to free himself.

"Get off me, you oversized..." His sword had fallen out of his reach, so he would have to use his gauntleted fists. They will do well enough...

Then the wolf's jaw snapped forwards, almost too fast to see. A searing pain racked his body as the wolf closed its jaws on Jaime's right wrist and with a brutal wrench, tore his arm off at the elbow. Jaime screamed.

The wolf spat his arm out and the weight on his chest lessened, but he was too shocked to move.

"My arm..." he whispered as his eyes began to swim. The pain...he had never been hurt...but not like this. Jaime thought he heard someone in the distance calling for a maester, but he did not care. The world began to grow black, and his last thoughts were of his sister.

Cersei...

 **XXXXXX**

 **Walton**

Some called him Steelshanks. His steel greaves strapped to his long legs sometimes attracted mockery, but he did not care. Most of the time, they stopped when they realized he was the captain of Lord Bolton's personal retainers. Walton was by no means as well-read as a maester, but being raised as a man-at-arms provided ample opportunity for him to learn his letters.

Perhaps he would have made a good knight, had he been born in the South, but as he was now, the only knightly items that accompanied him were his greaves. He had oft been glad to have them, ever since he stripped them from some Dornish knight that downstream from the Trident. In battle, blows always came from where the combatants least expect, like from a pike thrust overhead, or the desperate men who lay wounded on the ground, trying to keep themselves safe from him. Thankfully, his armor kept him safe. Most of the time.

Walton was not known for his brutality, though he had it in droves. For the most part, he took little joy in killing, and though he took women by force to ease his battle pain, he, for the most part, just did what Lord Bolton told him to.

They had come south with the northern host when Robb Stark had called the banners, as part of the large Bolton contingent. When Lord Robb had split his forces, after crossing the Twins, it was only natural that he stayed with Lord Roose. After a hard night's march, the Northern foot caught the Lannisters by surprise, but were unable to close the distance before they were met with vicious countercharges on both flanks that forced their more successful troops in the center to begin a withdrawal.

Archers from the dying Lord Hornwood scythed down the pikes on the left as the army began to retreat, but a fresh formation of southern knights led by the Mountain broke their White Harbor counterparts and turned the fighting retreat into a rout and cut down any who did not manage to run fast enough.

Walton and the other battle commanders had led the retreating northmen to the mouth of the causeway, where Lord Bolton had managed to reform them and personally led a countercharge that broke their equally exhausted mounted pursuers. The main Lannister army would have probably caught up with them and made a slaughter, but shortly after they had been reformed, the infantry who had followed the Northern footmen this far, suddenly wheeled south and retreated.

Walton supposed that the Old Lion wanted to rescue his son Jaime. Whatever it was, it had been a stroke of luck, and implied that Lord Stark's son had whipped the Lannister whelps on the other side of the river.

This was cause for celebration amongst the ranks, especially by the commanders, who had whipped the men back into formation and turned the flight of the army into an orderly retreat.

And while the traditional festivities of drinking commenced in the lordly tents, Walton had noticed that Lord Bolton had been absent. The other commanders hadn't seen him, so it fell to him to look for his liege personally.

And after some time, as the sun was beginning to sink below the trees, he found him. Walton noticed he lay against a tree, next to a horse that he supposed was dead, and surrounded by corpses. Walton hurried his steed in that direction. Roose had been left behind in the chaos of the second clash with the Lannisters. No doubt he will have a word for us when he learns how long ago he was left behind, thought Walton. He winced at the thought, but quickly discarded the fear. Let it never be said that I was disloyal.

"LORD BOLTON!"

He dismounted and ran to his liege lord's side, knelt, and offered a flask of watered wine. "Are you all right, my lord?" he said, worried. Lord Bolton slowly opened his eyes and tried to shift to a more dignified position, but he was unable.

"Walton..." The Lord of the Dreadfort looked paler than any leech could make him. Blood had dried over a wound to the head, undoubtedly a result of the fall, and an arrow was embedded in his right leg, while the other was bent in a way that implied it had broken, perhaps when the horse had fallen.

"Milord! We will bring you to a maester soon enough." Lord Bolton answered just answered with a groan of pain. Walton called for his fellow guards to help carry their liege back to the camp. They returned to the camp, late in the night.

 _ **AN:**_ _Many thanks to my editor, RedSword12, and all the people who have read these first chapters. See you in two weeks, folks!_


	4. Chapter 3

_**AN:**_ _Hello, dear readers. I have good news and bad news. The good news is that there's a new chapter for you to read. The bad news is that I've decided to temporarily put the story on hold, in order to rewrite the plot and make some changes. Don't worry, though, it'll only be a few weeks. And after that, I'll come back with a new chapter, which will be about a dog, a lion, and a mockingbird._

 _See you soon, dear readers!_

 **Chapter 2**

 _"Family, Duty, Honor."_ _ **-Words of House Tully**_

 **Brynden**

The second arrow reached its target as flames began to shroud the first boat in smoke. Brynden watched as the solemn waters of the Red Fork carried the bodies of the Lord of Riverrun and his son away, as the boats they lay in turned to flame. He lowered his bow and took a moment to mutter a prayer to the Gods. Brynden had never been one for prayers, having long observed that they were rarely answered, but it was at times like these, he supposed, that it never hurt to pray. He knew the Seven would be listening. If they were not...he could not bear the idea that Hoster and his son meant so little to them.

Catelyn stood at his right, watching the funeral boats float down the river. The entire household of Riverrun, some riverlords, and the Northern lords who had marched south with Catelyn's son, lined the battlements in silence, a solemn crowd. He knew the northmen had come for Cat, but he appreciated their presence, for it comforted him to know he was not alone in his grief. The only ones missing were those who were still recovering from wounds, like Robb. The boy had taken grievous wounds while trying to avenge his uncle. Brynden really hoped he would leave Riverrun on his feet, and not on a boat of his own. If Catelyn lost another member of her family, she would be devastated.

His niece sobbed and wiped the tears from her eye with her sleeve. Brynden lay the bow aside. He could only imagine how hard this must be for her. His heart too, was bent with grief, though he had learned to hide it within himself, behind a straight-faced mask. But now, the overwhelming sorrow within him threatened to break the mask, and spill the tears he'd been too proud to show.

His heart sometimes turned to rage. Against the Lannisters, and against his own damned pride, too. Perhaps if he had wedded himself to some girl like Hoster wanted, instead of fleeing to the Vale, he could have made a difference. If he had been with Edmure, fighting the Kingslayer's men...would his nephew have died all the same? Would he have fallen too? _At least I would know I did my duty_ , he told himself, like he had every night since Edmure's death, racked with guilt. _Even if I died there, by the Kingslayer's hand, at least I would know I held to the words of my house._

Brynden's greatest regret was that he had never considered reconciling with Hoster. If only he had thought of it before...if only he had tried to talk with his brother, even just once, in all the years since he had refused to marry Walder's brood...but his bloody sense of pride never allowed him to do such a thing. That, and the knowledge that, perhaps, Hoster would not be willing to even listen.

 _Would you, Hoster? Would you have been willing to speak with me again?_ Brynden sighed. Only the gods would know that.

They had never hated each other, for despite the feud between them, and what people said under their tables, he still loved Hoster. He just wished he wasn't so ridiculously stubborn! Hoster was the head of their House, sure, but why couldn't he just respect other people's wishes? He had never been willing to accept his decision not to marry, always insisting Brynden had always been doing it out of spite. _Hoster never knew the real reason_ , he thought. Not that he had ever been brave enough to say it. It would just have made things worse.

Catelyn started crying. Brynden hugged his niece, trying to comfort her.

"I am here, little Cat. I am here." He held her as tight as he could, as she sobbed and cried on his shoulder. The people nearby kept their silence in their shared grief.

 _This is all wrong. I am but an old man. I should be on the other boat, beside Hoster. And Edmure should have been here, to set his father and uncle to rest. He should be the one comforting Cat, not me._ Brynden did his best not to...cry. But he had to be strong for Catelyn. Later, maybe, he could allow himself some moments of weakness.

 _Gods, why did this have to happen?_

Brynden dearly wished that things had not gone so horribly wrong. He wished he had spent more time with his nephew, to see him grow into a man ready to take up the mantle of Riverrun. He had once wished that he and Hoster had departed on good terms, but now he saw the folly of his own making, that he had fled, rather than tried to end their feud before they died. He wished his family was whole and happy again.

But now...now his brother and nephew were dead, and House Tully, left in ruins for his neglect. There was nothing he could do to change that. All he could do, was to protect his remaining kin with all the years of fighting he had left. And that he would do, no matter how it would end for him. Prideful, elderly, black sheep.

 _I swear it on my honor as a Tully_ , he thought to himself. The Lannisters would pay for what they had done, one day. That, he knew.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Yohn**

When Yohn Royce had gone to King's Landing for the tourney of the Hand, he had expected all the things that usually come with tourneys. What he hadn't expected, however, was what happened later. The death of the King after a hunting incident and the arrest of the Hand were something that had deeply unsettled him, especially considering that he had been there when the boar killed Robert. Ever since, he had stayed in the capital out of uncertainty, to see what would happen later. But then the news about Tyrion Lannister's death in the Vale had reached the city. And before anyone could know it, he had left King's Landing together with his party. It did not take a maester to realize that, being a lord in the Vale, he would soon find himself walking astride a precipice. Only Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, had stayed in the capital, the upjumped man of uncertain loyalties that he was. Yohn did not know why he had stayed, and to be honest didn't care. He had never liked Baelish anyway.

Thankfully, his ship had arrived at Gulltown unmolested. Upon arriving, he had requested a meeting with the Lord of Gulltown, Gerold Grafton, and his son and heir, Ser Andar. The death of the Imp in the High Road was a serious matter, and it was of utmost importance that the Vale lords would quickly decide what to do. Yohn planned to send ravens to the other major lords of the Vale, after he left Gulltown.

Now, he and his son, Andar, were dining with Lord Gerold in the latter's solar, where they discussed the threat posed by the vengeful Lions.

"But why should we fear a Lannister reprisal? We did not kill the dwarf." said Lord Grafton, taking a sip from an enormous flagon of seawater wine.

Yohn shook his head. "I know Tywin Lannister. When it comes to the honor of his House, he cannot be reasoned with. He would never let such a thing pass, even though it was the mountain clansmen that caused his son's death."

"Lady Catelyn Stark, you mean. It was her who brought Tyrion Lannister here."

"True, but I don't think she wanted the Imp to die like that." answered Andar after taking a sip of wine from his goblet. _He should really stop drinking_ , thought Yohn.

"She had accused him of murder. No doubt she planned to kill him," retorted Lord Grafton. Yohn sighed at his son. He had not planned the conversation to turn this direction. Tyrion's death was not supposed to be the subject of conversation.

"It matters not whose fault it was. Do you think Tywin Lannister will care? All that will matter will be that a Lannister died in these very mountains, and we did nothing to stop it," said Yohn. "You can rest assured the Old Lion will send his host toward the Vale, once the Starks and Tullys are dealt with."

The Lord of Gulltown nodded. "Indeed. But why should we worry? They will find it impossible to pass the Bloody Gate, unless they learn to fly."

The elder Royce forced himself to give a chuckle. "No doubt a sight like that would be something worth seeing. But all the more likely, our first sight of them will be the ruby sails of their fleet. Even a man as determined as Tywin will judge the Bloody Gate as unassailable, and seek another way. What better place to land, than here?"

"We will have time enough to prepare defenses, Royce. Do not forget, the last time I defended this place, you were the man bringing ladders to my walls, you and Jon and Robert." Gerold scowled. "If you were to provide some gold as compensation for the killing of my father. And your own protection, as well..."

Yohn sighed. He knew this would be coming, when he requested to meet Lord Grafton.

"Aye, I see where the wind is blowing. You want to beggar us—"

"To pay for our defense." Yohn gave his son a stern look. _Be quiet, boy_. "One thousand gold dragons should be sufficient, would it not? I am more than generous. It is of utmost import that Lady Lysa Tully is persuaded to aid her kin from the Riverlands. She must call the banners. What happens when Lord Lannister has finished off the Riverlanders?"

"Aye, aye. I take the meaning of it." Gerold took a long draught from his flagon of salted wine. "There is a wiser course, one which would require that you let go of your passions and listen to some amount of sense." He paused for grand effect. "I propose that we wait."

"That is all?" Yohn was frankly unsurprised by the response, but still. How could he be so calm about what would be coming for them?

"When Robb Stark is inevitably defeated and killed, we come to his little brother's aid, and send men to protect Moat Cailin. In return, we demand that the fleet of White Harbor sails south to patrol our coasts. They will be desperate, so he will have no choice but to accept. We lose nearly nothing, and double the fleet available to us. Our best chance is to stall, stall, stall. When white ravens start coming in from the Citadel, Lord Lion will have no choice but to send his lords and levies home to gather the harvest, and wait for spring. No doubt winter will not be short seeing how long summer has been. If we are lucky, he will die of chill, while he is at it."

"But no doubt it would be easier for us to send our army and use it to crush the Lannisters," replied Yohn. "Gulltown lives on trade, and war happens to be bad for trade. So, all things considered, you should be the one telling us to march on the Lannisters."

"Go, ask Lady Arryn, if you wish to sally forth into the Riverlands. She has been most amiable, recently, to those who beg to aid her kin. Family, duty, honor. She cares deeply of such things," said Gerold, taking another long draught of his seawine.

"Lady Arryn would never allow it." said Andar. "She refused to let our best knights take part in the Hand's tourney. There is no chance she would send them to fight a war in the Riverlands."

"That is why I need your help, my lords." said Yohn. "Here's what we should do. We gather support from lords who think the same. Call our banners, and march to the foot of the Eyrie. And demand that we are allowed passage through the Bloody Gate." The idea of treason had passed too easily on his tongue for comfort, but what could a coward like Lysa Tully do against battle-hardened warriors?

"And if she refuses to see reason?" retorted Gerold.

"Then... we will make her see reason."

There was a moment of silence between the three men.

"Are you thinking of a rebellion?" asked Andar, worried. "Because that is what I think it would look like. And not only a rebellion against our liege lady, but the King, too."

"No, not rebellion." said Yohn. "We will simply talk to her, reminding her of her duties as Lady of the Vale."

"You mean her duty to punish treason with a beheading? I assure you, if we do not raise our banners for leverage, she will not bend. Her own sister tried to persuade her, and we know how that ended. I don't know about you, my lords, but I like my head to be on my shoulders, not on a pike," replied Gerold.

Yohn had to admit to himself that Lord Grafton had a point. "You make a good point. We will need to raise our banners once we have gathered enough support. My lords, this may be the hardest choice we will have to take in our lifetime..."

Just then, someone knocked at the door.

"Who is it?" said Lord Grafton.

"Maester Boros, my lord. I have important news to deliver you."

"Come in, then." The door opened and an old man entered the room. He was bald, wore simple gray robes and a chain around his neck. He bowed at the three of them, and held out a small rolled up parchment, offering it to Lord Grafton.

"What is it, Maester Boros? You said it was important news." Gerold accepted the letter, and unrolled it.

"It is, my lord," said Boros. "The raven carrying it just arrived from King's Landing."

Gerold raised his eyebrows as his eyes flitted across the parchment. He looked up. Yohn saw some fear in the lord's eyes, and he knew what he would hear. Dread drowned his heart in a sea of cold.

And then Lord Grafton said the words.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Catelyn**

It seemed a thousand years ago that Catelyn Stark carried her infant son out of Riverrun, crossing the Tumblestone in a small boat to begin the long journey to Winterfell. It had been only fifteen years, but by how much things had changed, it might as well have been a hundred. Back then, she was the young wife of the new Lord of Winterfell, freshly married, and mother to his firstborn son and heir. Those days, she had a brother, and Father was alive and well.

But now, a mere fifteen years later, she was a widow, mother to five children, one of which would never walk again, and another, who lay in bed, to recover from battle wounds. Her brother and dear father, both dead.

Sometimes, she found it difficult to accept her life had taken such a turn. It all seemed just like a bad dream, like the ones when Ned had ridden off to war, when their bedchamber was filled with silence, and she knew not if he would ever return. Sometimes, when she awoke, she still thought she would see Ned at her side, like before he went south with King Robert. But such thoughts were futile. It was a cruel reality. There was nothing she could do about it, but guard what remained of her tattered family, and hope she would not have to bury them.

She wanted to run, to go to her son's bedchamber and look after him. She wanted to mourn her lord husband, her beloved Ned. She wanted to pray to the Seven, for Edmure, and for her father. But she could not, not now. She had to at least seem strong for the assembled war council, or none would ever care to listen to her.

They had gathered in the Great Hall of Riverrun, at four long trestle tables arranged in a broken square. Brynden was now in the high seat of Riverrun, where her father had always sat. Catelyn was seated at his side, and her father's bannermen arrayed to the left, and right along the side tables.

 _No, not father's_ , she thought. _Bran's_. With Edmure dead, and the Blackfish unlikely to produce heirs, her son Brandon would inherit Riverrun. But Bran could not even walk by himself, so perhaps the riverlords would choose young Rickon instead. Such matters would have to wait for when the war was ended, though. When the Lannisters all hang. For now, she was the Lady of Riverrun, and had to act the part.

The Northern lords sat across the hall, all seated on one long bench, for they numbered less than the riverlords. Galbart Glover, Maege Mormont, and her daughter Dacey, Robin Flint of Widow's Watch, Daryn Hornwood, and Ser Donnel Locke were seated there, to name a few. Lord Rickard Karstark, who had seated himself next to the grieving Smalljon Umber, had taken on a nightmarish countenance. His face was gaunt, and his eyes had faded in their dark hollows, his long beard uncombed and unwashed. He had lost his firstborn son at the Green Fork, in the battle against Tywin Lannister. His two remaining children sat beside him, eyes red from recent tears.

When the great doors thudded shut, all assembled lords broke into heated discussion. Some turned to reason, but most chose to shout, curses echoing in the blackened rafters above. All had differing views on what should be done, but all agreed that the other was wrong.

Catelyn listened to them all, waiting for someone to gather the courage to suggest treating with the Lannisters, but to no avail. It was when Lord Jonos Bracken rose from his seat, declaring that they ought to pledge fealty to Renly Baratheon, and join their cause with his, that she spoke for the first time. Renly was Robert's younger, no, youngest brother. After marrying Margaery Tyrell at Highgarden, he had, without the high septon's anointment, crowned himself king.

"Renly is not the king," she said. Jonos Bracken appeared to disagree.

"You cannot mean to hold on to Joffrey, my lady," said Galbart Glover. "He is more Lannister than Baratheon, and it was the Lannisters who slew your father, husband, and brother. Your son lies abed, recovering from the Kingslayer's sword strike, and you would propose peace?"

"That makes Joffrey and the Lannisters evil," Catelyn replied. "But it does not make Renly the rightful king. Were Joffrey to die, by rights, the throne would pass to his brother Tommen."

"Tommen is no less a Lannister," snapped Marq Piper. The Smalljon rose and slammed his fist upon the table.

"I shall never call a Lannister my king!" he declared, his face stricken with grief and rage alike. The other lords voice their approval, for nearly all had lands that had been ravaged by the Mountain and his men.

Catelyn waited for them to quiet down and spoke again.

"Then, if neither is king, how could it be Lord Renly? He is Robert's youngest brother. He cannot be king before Lord Stannis."

"Lady Stark is right. Stannis has a better claim." said Lady Mormont.

"But not the army to use it." retorted Jonos Bracken. "Renly, does." He continued. "Renly has been crowned, and has the power of the Reach and Stormlands arrayed behind him. Dare we oppose him, when we scarce have the men enough to defend ourselves? Rest assured, the Dornish will bestir themselves before long, and if we join him as well, he will have five of the Seven Kingdoms with him. Six, if the Arryns bestir themselves. Six! My friends, before summer ends, we will have all our foes slain, their heads on pikes! That is what we stand to gain if we join with King Renly. What does Lord Stannis have against that, that would be worth sacrificing it all for?"

"The right," replied Catelyn.

"So you mean to declare for Stannis?" said Lord Jason Mallister.

"I...I am not completely settled on the matter," she said. She really had not. On one hand, she wanted the Lannisters to pay for what they had done to her family. But, on the other hand, she wanted to avoid further bloodshed. She had even pondered the possibility of asking for peace with the Old Lion, but the idea had all but died with Ned, and Renly's crowning. What would happen should Renly win? Would he declare them as traitors? Her thoughts turned to her daughters, Sansa and Arya. Perhaps peace with Lord Lannister would be preferable?

Again the shouting started, spurred on by her silence. Catelyn sat despairing. Every lord had his own grand plan to win the war, but few were willing to compromise. Many wanted to declare for Renly, but no small number wished to throw their support behind Stannis. Ser Stevron Frey suggested that they make peace with Tywin Lannister, and wait for the various claimants to bleed each other, to make their final decision. But it was too late for such a proposition, and Lords Karstark and Umber were quick to silence him, calling the Frey a craven.

Her uncle tried to silence them all, but it seemed that his heart was not in it, so he was mostly ignored. No doubt he had similar doubts as she did. Catelyn grimaced. What could sway the enraged lords and warriors to listen to her? And most importantly, who should they declare for?

Just then, the massive doors slammed open on before her, and a howl rang through the hall. Then, there was silence. Robb slowly walked into the room, and marched past the muttering riverlords, to the center of the room. Grey Wind followed at his heels, and Maester Vyman tried to go with him as well, but Robb waved him to step back, and let him speak alone.

"You should be resting." Her son had bandages wrapped all over his right shoulder and the left side of his head, where the Kingslayer had struck him. He looked at her with his uncovered eye.

"I have to be here, Mother. I cannot stay in bed while you all hold a war council, not when you are deciding the future of the war."

Theon rose and spoke. "You are of no use to anyone if you are dead, Robb. Go back to your chambers and sleep," he said. "I will tell you later, of what was spoken here." Catelyn was grateful that he had spoken, before she had to. Better that she would not be seen scolding her son, and for that, she was thankful.

For once, Robb paid him no heed, and continued speaking.

"What were you talking about?" he said, looking around the room at the lords sitting around him. Grey Wind seemed to somehow imitate him, in a way that made the two look uncannily as if they were of one mind.

"Renly Baratheon has crowned himself king at Highgarden. We have been considering whether we should declare for him, or his elder brother, Stannis," said Uncle Brynden. "It is common knowledge that Tommen is more a Lannister than a Baratheon. None of us here wish to see Tywin's brood seated on the Iron Throne."

Robb nodded. He grimaced and clenched his teeth.

Catelyn made to rise, but Grey Wind growled, and her son gestured her to be silent. Robb stroked the direwolf's head, and cleared his throat. "Stannis is the eldest of Robert's brothers, is he not?" The lords around him began muttering to each other, and finally seemed to agree.

"Aye."

"He is."

"Then he is the rightful king, if Lannister blood is to be discounted from House Baratheon." The Lords went silent again. "Is he not?" The last three words rang in their ears like a bell. "If we should follow the laws of birthright, Stannis is our rightful king."

Silence hung in the smoky air. Then Lord Bracken rose and spoke.

"My lord, Renly has the full might of Highgarden and Storm's End in his hands, grasping may they be. If we were to..."

"Lord Stark has the right of it," said Tytos Blackwood. "Stannis is our rightful king. Lord Bracken would have us serve a king of greed, a king who has crowned himself without the approval of the High Septon. But I say, since when did we serve a pretender, a Blackfyre, who lacks all claim to the throne?"

"This is a serious matter! The war will be won, or lost, in this hall. We cannot afford to base our choices on the law. So, my friends, think wisely. For if you choose wrongly, our heads stand to join Ned Stark's place of honor, on Lannister pikes," said Jonos. Catelyn flinched at the jab towards her husband. The lord of Stone Hedge seemed to realize as much, showing some regret, but no doubt, he had not changed his mind a bit.

"Father was a good man, murdered by the Lannisters, for a crime he did not commit." Robb looked at the lords arrayed around him. "My lords, many of you knew Ned Stark. Tell me, was he a man who would try and seize the throne when he had no right to it?" Most lords who knew what was best for them, nodded. "Your thoughts on him are your own, but as for me, he was a man of honor." Robb paused for dramatic effect. "Did he always try to do the right thing?"

Again, the lords surrounding Catelyn's son nodded.

"If my father were here with us, he would tell us to do what he would have done: declare for Stannis." _He is Ned's son_ , she thought, as she listened to him speak.

"Is Renly the rightful king just because he has the largest army, or Joffrey Lannister, because he has the most gold? I say, as my father would have, no. We cannot bend the laws just because they do not suit us. Are we no better than the Lannisters?" Catelyn felt her face bend into a smile of pride. Her son had trapped the lords, and left them no recourse but to agree with him. "Does anyone here disagree?" There was no answer.

"It is settled, then. The North will declare for Stannis Baratheon." Robb turned to look up at his mother and uncle.

Brynden gave Catelyn a questioning look, to ask if he could speak. She nodded.

"House Tully is with you, Lord Stark." Uncle Brynden smiled wryly. "It is done then." The hall was silent as he looked down at Maester Vyman. "Send a raven to Dragonstone."


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 _"When you play the game of thrones, you win or die. There is no middle ground."_ _ **-Cersei Lannister**_

 **Sandor**

If someone were to ask Sandor what was the worst thing that a man could be forced to endure, he would have no doubts about it. And his answer wouldn't be "cleaning the chamber pots of a hundred lords every day", or "being a eunuch in a pleasure house in Lys", or "facing a hungry dragon armed only with a wooden stick".

No, his answer would be "being Joffrey Baratheon's sworn shield".

Really, that could be taken as the ultimate proof that not only the gods were real, but that they were cruel, too. And that Joffrey was their ultimate punishment made flesh and blood.

His kin weren't like him. His grandfather was a great lord, worthy of respect in Sandor's opinion. His father was...had been a fat and drunken oaf. His mother, although a bitch of the worst kind, was at least good to look at. His little brother and sister were just harmless children. As for his uncles, he had never bothered to care too much about them.

But Joffrey...Joffrey was a royal pain in the ass, in the truest sense of the word. Arrogant, stupid, and overall annoying. And he was stuck with him, ever since his mother had commanded him to be his sworn shield, years ago. He had obeyed, of course, but privately he had cursed the bitch.

Even now, standing under a crimson canopy in the gallery erected for Joffrey's nameday tourney, watching those stupid knights pretending to fight and showing everyone how stupid they were, he still cursed Cersei Lannister.

 _Fucking cunt of a lioness._

He was standing right behind the king, his siblings and Sansa Stark, who had just been brought there by Ser Arys Oakheart. He was close enough to intervene in case something happened that required his sword. So close, in fact, that he just had to reach out his arm to touch the boy's hair. So close that...

 _It would be so easy now to behead the little shit_ , he thought. _I'd just have to pull out my sword, and with a single stroke...so long, Your Grace. Tell the Stranger that the Hound sends his regards._

But he would never do that, he knew it. They would kill him as soon as Joffrey's head hit the ground. Besides, he had sworn to protect the boy, as much as he despised him, and he would keep his word.

Still, it was a nice thing to imagine.

"...I would have been champion. Isn't that so, dog?" the royal asshole asked him.

Sandor suppressed the urge to chuckle. "Against this lot? Why not?" _Maybe if they had their hands tied behind their back..._

"Will you joust today, my lord?" Sansa Stark asked him.

Sandor's answer was quick. "Wouldn't be worth the bother of arming myself. This is a tournament of gnats."

The little shit laughed. "My dog has a fierce bark. Perhaps I should command him to fight the day's champion. To the death."

"You'd be one knight poorer." Sandor said. He knew he was way better than those idiots in shining plate, with their fancy banners and empty promises of bravery and kindness. He wasn't like them.

There was a blare of trumpets, and the herald announced the next two contestants. Joffrey took Sansa Stark's hand. Sandor looked at that and grunted. Under any other circumstances, that gesture may have been mistaken for one of affection. That wasn't the case. Anyone who wasn't blind or dumb knew how Joffrey usually treated the Stark girl. He had made a habit of having her beaten by his white-cloaked cunts. He seemed to always find an excuse for humiliating her, physically or verbally, like he had done some time ago after hearing the latest news about the war in the Riverlands.

 _"...because of your family, now I lost another uncle!"_ he had screamed at her. _"Your traitor of a brother shall pay for what he has done, just like my uncle Renly!"_

His rage had been a fearsome thing, and Sansa Stark had taken the brunt of it. She was already in a dire situation as it was. Her mother and aunt had caused the death of Tyrion Lannister, the Queen's youngest brother. Not that Joffrey, or the Queen for that matter, had ever cared much about him. It was just a matter of keeping up appearances.

As for the Kingslayer, there were mixed rumors about his fate. Some said he had been eaten alive by Robb Stark's pet wolf, while others said that he was now prisoner in Riverrun. Until now, neither of those rumors had been confirmed. Sandor didn't know which rumor was true, and to be honest he didn't care. Whether Ser Jaime Lannister was dead or simply a captive, it was one less dumb knight around.

Also, they had recently learned that Robb Stark had declared for Stannis Baratheon, one of Joffrey's paternal uncles. Sandor remembered Stannis. A grim man who, as far as he could tell, seemed to have an ice stick up his ass. Why would anyone declare for him, he didn't know, nor did he care. That was the King's concern. And to the King, Robb Stark and Stannis Baratheon were traitors, just like Renly.

However, he couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the Stark girl. Like him, she was stuck with Joffrey, but in her case it was because of a bethrothal. Unless something happened, she would marry Joffrey, sleep with him, and bear his children. It was not a good fate, and she surely didn't deserve it, but what could he do about it? Nothing.

And so he kept on guarding the little royal shit, even though he hated him.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Kevan**

King's Landing hadn't changed much since the last time Kevan had visited it. The city walls still bristled with spears, shining golden in the sun, sprawled and twisting over the hills like a dragon in slumber. His face darkened at the thought. _What are the Targaryens up to, over the Narrow Sea?_ He wondered if they would return one day. And if they won, what would be the fate of House Lannister? _Fire_ , Kevan thought. _Fire and Blood_. At least they wouldn't have dragons.

The Dragon Gate, inlaid with gold and rubies, once engraved with the winding wyrms of the Targaryen days, had finally been remade in likeness of the crowned stag of House Baratheon. Perhaps a lion will join it, one day, thought Kevan. As he and his escort approached the opened gates, he noticed a more recent ornament. A head, dipped in black tar, leered down from the spear that impaled it. The guards at the gates told him who that head had belonged to, and where was the rest of the body. Seven city gates, seven body pieces. All by Cersei's orders, as revenge for her brother Jaime. His niece had taken a leaf from King Maegor's book, and the late Lord Eddard Stark had shared the same fate as the unfortunate Alys Harroway.

And perhaps Kevan would have to do something similar with the Master of Coin. Lord Baelish had boasted of bedding both the Tully sisters, and was from the Vale after all. His loyalties could no longer be depended on.

 _"Heads, spikes, walls,"_ Tywin had instructed him. _"They will be your tools when you rule in my stead. No man is to be trusted, spider, mockingbird, or even Lannister. And above all else, put my grandson to heel, and his mother too, if need be. I will not tolerate any such blunders from the King ever again. Rule as I would. Put the members of the Small Council in line. And if they persist...deal with them."_ He did not want to begin his time as Hand with a beheading, but as needs must, he supposed.

The armed men with him rode into King's Landing in silence. Leo Lefford was with him, and Philip Plumm, too. Both were held in high regard by Lord Tywin, but not so skilled as to be irreplaceable in battle. Harys Swyft led another detachment of soldiers not far behind, but he would take days to arrive, as the small host with him was completely on foot.

Renly Baratheon, with his marriage alliance with the Tyrells, would be marching up the Roseroad in a few months. And a host larger than that of the Field of Fire, behind him. Perhaps the largest army Westeros had seen. And Kevan had no doubt the smallfolk would welcome him. Hateful looks followed he and his party as they rode through the city. And judging by the hateful, starved faces of the men and women of the capital, they had not forgiven House Lannister yet. _And to think they probably speak excitedly of Renly in their cups, even as he holds their food hostage_ , he thought. _No doubt they would be the ones to cheer the loudest at his coronation._

His men were on edge too, sword and spear ready to slay the man who dared attack. The ring of hooves on the cobbled streets was muffled with filth, and more than mortar had crept between the age-worn bricks. Beggars, bandits, and smallfolk of all kinds were huddled against the houses, reluctantly making way for Kevan and his escort. No face he saw was filled with anything but hunger. They yearned for far more than the food that Renly had seen fit to deny them. _They desire our blood, if only to staunch the old wounds of Robert's Rebellion_. Kevan was sure that, if they had to choose between killing a Lannister and a Tyrell, they would choose the former.

Seeing Tywin's grandchildren again would bring a smile to his face, he knew. Until he remembered Joffrey. His companions did not look all too pleased either. They knew what had transpired there well enough. All hope of peace with the Starks died that day, squandered by the King. It almost reminded him of Aerys, of how peace had been attainable in both wars, until an ill-advised execution put an end to all talk of peace. What a fool Aerys had become.

Kevan had a sense that Joffrey would prove little different. Cersei, too, was to blame for all this. She raised her son to be as great a fool as the last Targaryen king. Kevan was puzzled by the sheer stupidity displayed by Joffrey. _How could you have allowed your son to do such a thing?_ Surely his niece wasn't that lacking in her father's ability? But in his heart, he knew it to be true. Cersei was clearly unfit to rule, and Tywin had told him as much. If she occupied the seat of Lady Regent, she would have to be removed, and quickly.

"Did you say something, my lord?" asked Leo Lefford. Kevan shook his head.

"I was just thinking of Lord Stark. What the King did to him..." The lords with him kept silent at that. None wished to be heard speaking ill of Joffrey, regardless if they disliked him.

"He is just a boy," said Kevan finally, hoping to break the silence.

"The Realm needs a king," snapped Lord Philip Plumm. "I hope you can make a man of him, my lord."

"A boy of three and ten can scarce be expected to make sound decisions. It is chiefly Cersei to blame, not Joffrey," replied Leo Lefford. Kevan nodded. _What will Tywin think, that his own daughter is so incapable of ruling?_ Unfortunately, Kevan could barely say better about his own offspring, if he was to be honest with himself. Lancel was not of Tywin's make, nor was Tygett's son Tyrek.

"Do not let them hear you speak ill of our King. Remember what the Mad King did to the ones Varys caught saying the wrong things," said Kevan. They would do well to listen. If Joffrey chose to punish a westerlord for such a thing, Kevan was unsure if the redcloaks could be depended upon in a fight, much less the goldcloaks, who were little more than fingers sewn to Petyr Baelish's grasping little hands.

These thoughts accompanied him as he and his party arrived at the Red Keep. The ancient castle loomed over them all, its towers almost looking at Kevan as if to dare him to enter the castle. In the distance, he could see the Tower of the Hand, his new home for the foreseeable future. And hopefully, he wouldn't end up like its former occupant.

 _Here we are_ , he thought as he got down from his horse. _Let's get to work._

Kevan took a deep breath, waited for Lefford and Plumm to join him, and entered the castle.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Varys**

"Again."

The screams of the tortured man and the crack of the whip filled the torture chamber, as the gaoler hit him once again on the back. Varys watched all this without batting an eyelid.

The prisoner slowly raised his head and looked at Varys. "Please...no more..." His voice was hoarse from the screaming, and his eyes looked at him with fear. He was naked from the waist up, and his breeches were in a poor state. His smell, a mixture of blood, feces and urine, wasn't any better, after being in the dungeons for a while.

"If you wish for all this to end, then tell me where Petyr Baelish is." Varys answered in his usual emotionless tone.

"I told you...I don't know where he is! He...he didn't tell me! He just...gave me some coins and told me to stay in his chambers for a while."

When news had finally reached the capital about Tyrion Lannister's death in the Vale, there had been a moment of chaos as people figured out what would happen next. Even Varys had been caught off guard. He hadn't expected for the Imp to die like that. However, he hadn't wasted time, and had soon put his little birds to work. He knew what would happen after such an event.

Unfortunately, his efforts had been in vain. Petyr Baelish had managed to flee King's Landing before someone could arrest him. The man Varys was now torturing had been found into one of Baelish's brothels. He bore an incredibly strong resemblance to the now former Master of Coins, and at first had been mistaken for him by the city guards. A closer look by Varys had later unveiled the truth.

That was to be expected. Petyr Baelish was anything but stupid, and would never let himself be caught so easily. Varys just wished he had managed to catch him in time. That way, he would have one less unpredictable variant to deal with now.

"Please, my lord...you have to believe me..." the prisoner said, exhausted.

"And I believe you, in fact." Varys said, meaning it. There was no way that man was still lying after being tortured, and it was impossible for Littlefinger to inspire such loyalty. And even if the prisoner knew where Baelish had gone, there was no way to know if he had been lied to or not. However, he couldn't let that man leave the dungeons. He turned to the gaoler. "You can kill him."

The gaoler nodded and reached for a dagger on a nearby table. The prisoner started screaming again, before the gaoler's blade cut his throat from behind.

"Take care of the body." Varys said, and then left the chamber without waiting for a reply.

 _Now, where did you go, Baelish?_ he thought. Surely not to any of the late king's brothers. Stannis despised him, and siding with Renly would be too risky as of now. And surely not to Riverrun, right at the center of the war. Varys frowned as he reached a conclusion. _There is only one place where Littlefinger could have gone..._

 _ **NEXT:**_ _All hail the Mannis! Coming to you in two weeks time._


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

" _Littlefinger...the gods only know what game Littlefinger is playing."_ _ **-Varys**_

 **Stannis**

The red comet travelled across the sky, its tail like a wound in the firmament. Stannis watched it from one of the windows of the Chamber of the Painted Table. He was standing and had his hands behind his back, his brow furrowed as he thought.

 _Just like she said._

When Lady Melisandre had talked about a comet, he had at first dismissed it as nonsense. And yet, there it was. Was it just a coincidence? Or was it proof of her claims? Her Red God, R'hllor, her magic, her fire...Stannis was still wondering why he had let her stay on the island. He could have easily ignored her ramblings and sent her somewhere else.

 _And yet, I let her stay._

Part of him supposed it was because of Selyse. His lady wife seemed to have taken a liking to the red-headed woman from Asshai, and had even renounced the Seven in favor of R'hllor. They spent a lot of time together, simply talking about who knew what or praying in front of one of Melisandre's night fires. If he still tolerated Patchface for Shireen's sake, he ought to do the same with the red priestess.

Another part of him blamed curiosity. There was something about that woman that was so...well, different. She was unlike any other woman he had met. And that something had somehow managed to pique his curiosity. He just hoped he would not come to regret his decision.

He sighed and turned to face the Painted Table. His eyes ran along the edges, which Aegon the Conqueror's carpenters had shaped after the Westerosi coastlines, finally resting on the part of the table corresponding to the Stormlands. His home. What he should be ruling right now. But Robert had chosen otherwise, disregarding all the succession laws, just to punish him for his failure in capturing the last Targaryens. He had complied, of course. Robert was his elder brother, his king. It was Stannis' duty to obey. But this didn't mean he had to like it.

He walked toward the only chair in the room, positioned near the table in the place occupied by Dragonstone in the real world. He sat, lowered his gaze to the table, and his thoughts went from one brother to another.

 _Renly..._

It seemed to be his fate to be betrayed by his brothers. Years ago Robert had robbed him of his birthright, and now Renly had crowned himself instead of supporting his elder brother, his rightful king.

He grit his teeth as he remembered the day he had heard the news. He had felt worse than betrayed, as if someone had stabbed him in the heart with an ice dagger. His own younger brother, the one he had done his best to protect during the siege of Storm's End, had turned his back on him.

And he wasn't the only one. As Davos had just told him, the stormlords were on Renly's side. At least, those he had managed to talk to. Some of them had refused to even just receive his Onion Knight, maybe thinking to wait behind their walls for the end of the war and then declare for the winner, whoever he was.

 _Traitors and cravens, all of them. The land is full with these vermins. Filthy traitors and lying cravens!_

Thankfully, loyalty didn't seem to have completely died out in the realm. The North and the Riverlands had declared for him. Their message gave him some kind of hope, for it meant that not all of the realm had sided with a false king. He had answered soon, confirming his claim to the throne and informing them of his and Jon Arryn's investigations. Later, he would write it all in a letter to spread throughout the realm, so that everybody would know of his claim and Cersei Lannister's infamy.

 _And then_ , he thought, _justice will be done._

Just then, he heard footsteps. He glanced up and saw a familiar figure entering the room. "I knew you would come, old man, whether I summoned you or no."

Maester Cressen was old, and seemed to grow older with every passing minute. His wrinkled face clearly showed his age, and also all the effort he had done to arrive up there, at the top of the Stone Drum. "Once you would have woken me." he said.

"Once you were young." Stannis answered. "Now you are old and sick, and need your sleep." That may sound harsh, but it was the truth, and Stannis saw no reason to soften it with silken words. "I suppose you met Davos while coming here."

The maester nodded. "I did, Your Grace. He told me everything."

"Your Grace..." Stannis repeated. That was his title, but it had a bitter taste. "You mock me with a king's style, while I am king of barely half the realm."

"Half a kingdom is better than none."

Cressen was right, Stannis had to give him that. His situation could be much worse. He sighed. "What do you think I should do, maester?" The old man had served him well for years, and Stannis valued his advice.

"Your true enemies are the Lannisters, my lord." Cressen answered. "If you and your allies in the Riverlands were to make common cause with Renly against them..."

"I will not treat with Renly. Not while he calls himself a king." Stannis abruptly interrupted him. Treating with a false king...Cressen must have been losing his wits with old age.

"Then there are other options. What of Lady Arryn? If the queen murdered her husband, surely she will want justice for him. The Martells, too, for what happened to Princess Elia and her children. You could seek an alliance with them."

Stannis pondered the old man's words. He wasn't wrong about Lysa Arryn, but the Martells? Would they willingly side with the brother of the man who had let Tywin Lannister get away scot free? Even if he was their rightful king, even if he promised them justice?

"Must the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms resort to pleading, like a common beggar?" a woman's voice asked suddenly.

Cressen turned and bowed his head. "My lady."

Stannis clenched his teeth and scowled. His lady wife had just arrived. "Do not compare me to a beggar. I do not beg. Of anyone. Mind you remember that, woman."

"I am pleased to hear it, my lord." answered Selyse, entering the room. "Lady Arryn owes you her allegiance, as do the Martells, your brother Renly, and all the rest. You are their one true king. It would not be fitting to plead and bargain with them for what is rightfully yours by the grace of god."

Again with her god, Stannis thought. "Your god can keep his grace. It's swords I need, not blessings."

"My brothers and uncles and cousins have armies." she continued. "House Florent will rally to your banner."

"House Florent can field two thousand swords at best." he said. He knew that, although ancient and proud, the Florents weren't the strongest House in the Reach. Also, their lands were too close to Highgarden.

"There is another way." Selyse said, moving closer. "Look out your windows, my lord. There is the sign you have waited for, blazoned on the sky. Red it is, like the fiery heart of the true god..."

Stannis just let his wife talk without truly listening to her. _When will she stop talking about this red god?_ If she was trying to convert him, she would be disappointed. Stannis had promised himself to never worship anymore gods, red or black or whatever color they were. His parents' death had taken whatever little faith he could have out of him.

When he noticed Selyse had finally stopped talking, he spoke again. "And how many swords will the Lord of Light put into my hand?"

"All you need. The swords of Storm's End and Highgarden for a start, and all their lords bannermen."

"Davos would tell you different. Those swords are sworn to Renly."

"Yes, but if Renly should die..."

 _Die?_ "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Melisandre has gazed into the flames, and seen him dead."

Then, Cressen spoke. "My lord...whatever follies Renly has committed..."

"Follies? I call them treasons!"

"Still, whatever Lady Melisandre may have seen in her flames..."

"...is what is bound to happen." Selyse interrupted him. "Do not doubt the power of R'hllor, Maester Cressen."

Stannis decided he had had enough. Before Cressen or Selyse could say anything else, he spoke. "Enough! Both of you, leave."

His wife tried to reply, but Stannis silenced her with a look. She looked at him, then left without saying a word. Cressen cleared his throat. "Your Grace." he said, bowing, and then he too left.

Finally alone, Stannis could now take some time to think clearly.

 _What should I do?_

 **XXXXXX**

 **Melisandre**

Melisandre closed the door behind her back and strode into her room. She had just spoken with Selyse. Stannis didn't seem to be willing to listen to the truth of the Red God. She wasn't too worried about that, though. She was confident in her abilities, both feminine and magical, and she knew that sooner or later Stannis would give in. However, a little nudge in the right direction wouldn't hurt.

She smiled as she approached the hearth near the bed, a few weak flames still rising from the embers. She knew what to do. Something that she had spent decades after decades honing to perfection. The flames would show her the future. Something bound to happen, and that events would prove to be true. And later, Stannis would finally accept R'hllor as his one true god.

Chanting a prayer to the Lord of Light, she fed the flames and then laid the poker aside. She stared right into the fire, like she had done countless times before, and after a few minutes the visions came. Not a confusing mess, but something that could easily be discerned. She thanked her god for that and saw...

...she saw a golden stag and a grey wolf, both bleeding from multiple wounds, surrounded by a pack of lions. The stag lay on the ground, breathing heavily, while the wolf stood and snarled at his foes. Suddenly, one of the lions roared, and the entire pack jumped as one on the two wounded animals. There was a storm of blood, snarls and bites and claws, and then the stag and the wolf were no more.

 _R'hllor almighty..._ Melisandre stepped back from the flames, shivering despite the heath. _This can't be the end. Azor Ahai Reborn can't die this way. He can't!_ She had to try again.

She fed the fire again and concentrated, looking firmly into the flames, and saw...

...a black bird on top of a mountain, holding a silver fish in its talons. Odd enough, the fish didn't seem to be struggling. In fact, it seemed to somehow enjoy being there. Melisandre could see its little mouth shaping into what was undoubtedly a smile. All around the mountain, a series of bronze shields. And just then...

...the vision suddenly faded, and it become something completely different. There was a huge, ancient-looking castle with three towers, apparently in ruins and completely surrounded by the sea. The waves kept on aggressively crashing against the stone, while on one of the towers, ten white wolves snarled angrily at the sea. And then...

...another vision came, this time a big black dog with a little white bird on its back. The dog was walking through a moonlit forest, somewhere near a river, its face looking around the trees as if searching for enemies. The little bird seemed to be completely at ease on the dog's back. She noticed a scar on the left side of the dog's head. It looked like some kind of burn...

Melisandre frowned. The visions seemed to be getting weirder and weirder. Maybe it was a test from R'hllor, to prove her abilities and faith. If so, what did they mean?

 _Lord of Light, give me the wisdom to understand..._

Once again, she looked into the flames, and prayed.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Petyr**

Petyr lay on the bed naked, as he looked at the ceiling, deep in thought. The flickering light of the lantern cast a grim-looking shadow over the wall near the bed. The only sounds in the room were a light snoring from the slumbering woman near him and his own breath.

 _That went better than I expected_. He chuckled. _What am I talking about? It was my wedding night, not a battle._ That word seemed so strange to him. _Wedding...I am a married man, now._

He realized how much his life had changed in such a short amount of time. A few months ago, he was the Master of Coin for His Grace King Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name. Today, he was a wanted man, and married to his childhood friend Lysa Tully.

That had all happened because of Tyrion Lannister's sudden death. Sure, he had planned for the Imp to die, but not like that. His fall from a precipice had ruined everything. And after such an event, he couldn't stay in King's Landing. He knew how Tywin Lannister and his kin thought. If he had been so stupid as to stay in the capital, maybe counting on his acquaintances and money to protect him, by now his head would surely be rotting on a pike on the walls of the Red Keep, with the ravens picking at his flesh and shitting on his hair.

And so, using a lookalike to divert the Lannisters' attention and hiding in places known only to him, he had managed to flee King's Landing. Knowing he didn't have much options, he had gone to the only place in the Seven Kingdoms where he would truly be safe: the Eyrie. There, he could count on Lysa's protection and use his leverage on her to secure his position.

That had been easy enough. Lysa had enthusiastically agreed to marry Petyr, after granting him the titles of Lord of the Fingers and Lord Protector of the Vale. Officially he ruled alongside Lysa in her son's name. But in truth, he couldn't care less about Lysa or her brat. They were just a means to an end, a way to cement his power in the Vale.

Petyr knew it wouldn't be easy. Yohn Royce and some of the other main lords of the region didn't trust him, and they would surely do anything in their power to oppose him. But Petyr was by no means an easy opponent. The lords of the Vale were many, and some of them could easily be convinced to support him. His mind and tongue were sharp, and he still had a lot of his gold and silver. And where those couldn't go...well, many lords had secrets they desperately wanted to keep hidden.

He smiled. Yes, it all could be done. His schemes had still a chance to succeed. He just had to plan them carefully. But that could wait. For now, he would just enjoy a good night's sleep.

Petyr yawned, briefly looking at Lysa's naked form. He shook his head, thinking once again how much she had changed over the years. Her body was thick from the many pregnancies and miscarriages, and her breasts were sagging. Only her long auburn hair were still the same as when she was young. Not that she was ugly, far from it, but still...

He grunted and turned on his left side. _Just pretend she's Catelyn_ , he told himself, and then closed his eyes to try to sleep.

 _ **AN:**_ _Not all of Melisandre's visions will come true…_

 _ **NEXT:**_ _Squids and trouts and onions! Coming to you in two weeks!_


	7. Chapter 6

_**AN:**_ _Sorry for the delay, dear readers. Here's the new chapter._

 **Chapter 6**

 _"Stannis is pure iron, black and hard and strong, yes, but brittle, the way iron gets. He'll break before he bends."_

 _ **-Donal Noye**_

 **Victarion**

The four of them were sitting around a table into Balon's solar. Balon himself, Aeron Damphair, Rodrik Harlaw, and Victarion. Balon was the only one of them talking.

"...and after this, when winter will come, the North will finally be ours." said Balon. "The Stark forces will be trapped beyond the Neck, and the lions will slaughter them all!"

Aeron nodded, while Rodrik Harlaw merely listened. He didn't seem too convinced.

Victarion could partially understand him. He too had had doubts about this, at first. An attack on the North...it was poorer, compared to other parts of Westeros. There were many richer targets. The Reach, with its fertile fields and towns full of people. The Westerlands, with all of their mines of gold and silver. But Balon had managed to convince him of the wisdom of his plan. Also, it wasn't just a matter of choosing the best territory to plunder. What Balon truly had in mind was something else, something different: revenge. The northmen had robbed him of his sons and contributed to his defeat. Balon would pay them back for what they had done. And Victarion would do his duty and follow his brother's orders.

 _We will make the ironborn great again!_ Balon had said earlier. _We will avenge our defeat from ten years ago!_

Victarion still remembered the day Balon's dreams of glory for the ironborn had been crushed. It was raining, like today. He remembered many things after personally witnessing them. His ship sinking into the cold waters of the Straits of Fair Isle. He had survived only by a miracle of the Drowned God. Other things had been told to him by others, and he could only imagine them. The greenlander king and his lapdogs standing before Balon as he was forced on his knees. And last but not least, he still remembered those old feelings. The shame of the defeat, the grief for the death of Maron and Rodrik. Those feelings still burned like fresh wounds, and he would made sure the greenlanders paid for each one of them!

 _What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger._

"And what of your son?" asked the Lord of Harlaw.

Balon raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Theon. He is still a Stark ward. Aren't you worried about what they would do to him, in retaliation for an attack from us?" The Reader seemed really concerned for his nephew's well-being.

Victarion remembered Theon. He had been taken hostage when he was still a green boy. And after ten years among them, by now they'd have surely turned him into a soft greenlander. Balon had personally told him that just the idea of his son beheaving like one of them deeply disgusted him. Worshipping the greenlander gods, jousting with knights in a tourney...Theon was as good as dead to Balon. If the Starks actually killed him, all the better. And Victarion shared his brother's opinion on the matter.

Balon looked at his goodbrother and spoke.

"I have no sons. They all died ten years ago." He paused, and then added: "Asha is my only heir."

 **XXXXXX**

 **Brynden**

A clash of metal on metal echoed in the air. There was a grunt of pain, and a sword fell on the ground of the training yard amidst a stream of curses.

"Easy, boy." said Brynden, looking at Robb. "Muttering curses won't help you improving."

Robb sighed, looking downcast. "Sorry, Uncle." Robb's direwolf, Grey Wind, looked at them both before whining and lowering his head. Brynden noticed once again how much the beast seemed to mirror the boy's actions. Really, it was uncanny. When Robb was angry, the direwolf growled. And wherever Robb went, the direwolf followed him, always at his left side. It seemed...it seemed as if the two of them were of one mind. And he wasn't the only one to have noticed this. Catelyn had mentioned how her children and their wolves had always been close, ever since they were found, but something like this had never happened. Grey Wind never left Robb's side, even when he slept. She wasn't worried, though. She just thought it was a little strange.

Brynden, too, wasn't worried. He wasn't an expert in matters regarding direwolves, or any other kind of animal for that matter. However, he had heard once or twice that sometimes dogs could act as some kind of emotional support for their masters. And direwolves were very similar to dogs, so maybe Grey Wind was just supporting Robb.

Gods knew how much the boy needed support. After surviving the duel with the Kingslayer, he had been bedridden for what looked like an eternity, leaving his room only once Maester Vyman had deemed him healed and fit for walking. However, he wasn't exactly the same as before. He had lost his left eye, and now wore an eye-patch which had soon earned him the nickname "One-Eyed Wolf". He didn't seem to mind it, though, for he had smiled the first time he had heard it. But the worst damage concerned his right arm. Jaime Lannister's strike had irreedeemably damaged it, to the point that Robb couldn't hold a sword anymore. He could still use it to grab random things, but as far as swordmanship was concerned, from now on he would have to rely on his left arm.

That was why, as soon as he had started walking again, Robb had asked Brynden to train him. Better to start soon. It would take years, though, before the boy could learn to fight adequately with his left arm. So, for the foreseeable future, he would have to lead his host from the rear.

Brynden lowered his sword and put a hand on Robb's shoulder. "You don't have to apologize. It's perfectly understandable to be angry. Gods know how I would react, if I were in your place." He paused. "What you must do, is control your anger and not let it blind you. Instead, use it to strengthen your arm and strike at your opponent with all your might. My old master-at-arms said the same thing to me once, when I was still a green boy."

Robb sighed and nodded. "You are right, Uncle. It's just that..."

"Let me guess, you feel useless."

"Exactly! I am the Lord of Winterfell. I should be leading my men against the enemy. What use am I, if I can't even fight?"

"Your men know that you have been wounded. They will understand." He looked Robb in the eyes. "Listen to me, Robb. It may take years, but one day you will be able to fight again. For now, though, you will lead from the rear. The best thing you can do is not give up and be an example for your men."

That was the best advice he could give Robb. Despite everything that had happened, he was still a boy, and he needed someone experienced to guide him and give him good advice. Brynden was more than willing to do it.

Just like he had done the other day, during another one of their training sessions. They were talking about war strategy, and Robb had suggested sending his friend Theon Greyjoy to Pyke, to ask for his lord father's support. Brynden had soon dismissed the idea.

 _"Theon Greyjoy may be your friend, but his kin are not. Robb, you must never trust the ironborn!"_ These had been his words. Like any other rivermen, Brynden despised the people of the Iron Islands, and although he tolerated Theon's presence, he would rather not deal with his kin. Besides, he was sure that King Stannis would not like such a thing.

Robb nodded again. "I will do as you say, Uncle."

Brynden smiled. "Good. Now pick up your sword. You aren't done for today." he said, raising his sword and assuming a fighting stance.

Robb slowly took his sword, and the two of them resumed their training, Grey Wind watching all the while.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Davos**

 _"All men know me for the trueborn son of Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, by his lady wife Cassana of House Estermont. I declare upon the honour of my House that my brother Robert, our late king, left no trueborn issue of his body, the boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen, and the girl Myrcella being abominations born of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother Ser Jaime the Kingslayer. By right of birth and blood, I do this day lay claim to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Let all true men declare their loyalty. Done in the sight of gods and men, under the sign and seal of Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."_

The words of the letter were still fresh in Davos' mind, as he walked the steps leading to Lord Stannis' solar...

 _No, he's king. King Stannis_. He still had to get used to thinking of Stannis Baratheon as his king. For so many years he had simply been the Lord of Dragonstone, and now...now he was the rightful monarch of the Seven Kingdoms.

 _A king without a throne, though_. Dragonstone and the rest of the Narrow Sea. The North and the Riverlands. That was Stannis' kingdom. The Iron Throne was still in the hands of Joffrey the Usurper. The rest of the realm was either Stannis' enemy, or seemingly indifferent.

A situation like that would send most men into despair. But Stannis wasn't most men, Davos knew it, although he kept on brooding over what he perceived as a betrayal. Renly had crowned himself at Highgarden, with all the might of the Reach and the Stormlands behind him, instead of supporting his elder brother. Davos wasn't sure what to think of Renly, for he and the youngest Baratheon brother had never spent much time together. But he could well imagine how Stannis must be feeling. He had known him for quite some time, he was the closest friend Stannis ever had. By know, he knew more or less how he thought and felt.

Therefore, he could try to guess why he had been summoned to Stannis' solar, the Chamber of the Painted Table, atop the Stone Drum. It must have something to do with that letter, he thought.

He arrived at the door at the end of the stair and knocked. Stannis answered from the other side. "Come in." His usual stern voice, with no hints of warmth. Davos was used to it, and knew that Stannis didn't do it out of malice, it was just his personality. He opened the door and entered the room.

Stannis was sitting on the chair near the Painted Table, eyes on the place where King's Landing stood in the real world. He raised his head and looked at him. "Ser." he said as a greeting.

"Your Grace." Davos answered, with a light bow of his head. "I came as soon as you summoned me."

Stannis nodded. "Did Maester Cressen read you the letter?"

"He did, Your Grace."

"And what are your thoughts on it?"

"The words were blunt and strong, but other than this it seems fine to me. Although..."

"Although?"

Davos sighed. "Well, Your Grace...it's one of the lines at the end. 'Done in the sight of gods and men'."

Stannis frowned. "What of it?"

"Nothing, it's just that...I'm surprised, Your Grace. I expected there would be 'god', not 'gods'."

"And why would that be?"

"You have been spending a lot of time with Lady Melisandre, as of late. I thought..."

"You thought she had managed to convert me to her religion, didn't you?"

Davos nodded. That was exactly what he had been thinking, and he wasn't the only one. Almost everyone in the castle talked about how much time Stannis spent with the red woman. It was much more than he usually spent with his lady wife. Some people said that the two of them were lovers, but Davos thought that highly unlikely. Stannis would never take a mistress. He was a dutiful man who kept every promise he made, and that included his marriage vows, too.

"I can assure you that such a thing hasn't happened, nor it will ever do." Stannis said. "You know what I think about gods. Also, if I converted to a foreign religion, I would risk being deserted by my allies in the North and the Riverlands, and that is something that I cannot afford." He shook his head. "No, Davos, I will never be a follower of R'hllor. I will allow Melisandre to convert people willing to do it, and I will keep her as an advisor, but nothing more than that."

Davos nodded again. "I understand, Your Grace." What Stannis had just said made sense, but Davos couldn't help but be a little suspicious. _If she hasn't converted you, what are you doing when you are together?_ Could it be that the rumors were true?

"Now, we should talk about why I summoned you here." his king said.

"I am yours to command, my king. As ever."

Stannis nodded. "I mean for your firstborn Dale to sail Black Betha north, to Gulltown, the Fingers, the Three Sisters, even White Harbor. Your second son Allard will go south with the Lady Marya, past Cape Wrath and the Broken Arm, all along the coast of Dorne as far as the Arbor. Each of them will carry a chest of letters, and will deliver one to every port and holdfast and fishing village. They will be nailed to the doors of septs and inns for every man to read who can."

"That will be few enough." Davos said. "Send with them some knights to do the reading. That will carry more weight than anything my sons might say."

"I can give them such men, yes. I have a hundred knights who would sooner read than fight." answered Stannis.

"And what about me, Your Grace? Do you mean for me to go with one of my sons?"

"No, Ser Davos. I have something else in mind for you..."


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 _"No man is free. Only children and fools think elsewise."_

 _ **-Tywin Lannister**_

 **Kevan**

He took the goblet of wine from his young squire's hands and nodded at him. "Thank you, Podrick. You may leave."

Podrick Payne bowed. "Y-yes, my...my Lord Hand." he said nervously, as he often did, and then left the room.

 _Lord Hand_ , Kevan thought. _I will never get used to it._

Sometimes it all seemed like a dream. No, more like a nightmare. Like one of those nightmares that sometimes haunted his sleep, and from which he usually woke up panting, sweating, with his wife putting her gentle hand on his shoulder to calm him. Nightmares so vivid as to be undistinguishable from reality.

And his current role was undoubtedly a nightmare. He was the Hand of His Grace King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name. The second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, the latest in a long line of men to serve in that role. He spoke with the king's voice, and had the power to run the realm when the king couldn't.

It was also a job of great responsibility. The Hand had to take a lot of decisions on a almost daily basis, which could go from something relatively easy like talking with a foreign dignitary, to running the kingdom in a time of war when the king was indisposed. It wasn't easy, and many a man had failed in the office.

When Tywin had ordered him to go to King's Landing, Kevan had felt honored. However, sometimes he wished his brother had sent someone else.

 _But who else could he choose?_ he asked himself as he sipped the wine, a good Dornish red. _Marbrand? Brax? And how would they deal with Cersei?_ He sighed. Tyrion would have been a good choice, had he been alive. And Tywin had to stay in the Riverlands to lead the war effort, else he would have personally gone to the capital. And so, the choice had fallen on Kevan.

Cersei hadn't been too happy about it, though. That was to be expected. She had asked...no, ordered her lord father to come to King's Landing. She hadn't voiced her feelings on the matter, but they were plain for everyone to see. As for Joffrey, he seemed to be indifferent to it.

However, Kevan hadn't let all this put him down. He may not be his brother, but he was far from a weak man. He would do his duty, at the best of his abilities, for the king and the realm.

He put aside the goblet and took a parchment from a small pile on his right. They were all reports concerning the city and the crown. The one he was now unrolling was from Lord Plumm. The new Master of Coin was increasingly worried about the current state of the royal treasury, something for which they had to thank his predecessor. Kevan really wished they had managed to arrest Petyr Baelish, but unfortunately, the man had escaped before anyone could even notice it. Gods knew where he had gone.

 _He should have taken an eel as his personal crest_. _He is as slippery as one._

As he started reading the report, he heard a commotion from outside the door. Two different voices, clearly having an argument. He couldn't make out who these voices belonged to. "Now, what..." He made to rise from his seat, and just then the door burst open.

Cersei strode into the room, an embarrassed Podrick Payne in tow. Behind them, Ser Arys Oakheart, who seemed to be as red in the face as Podrick.

 _What in seven hells is she doing here?_

"Cersei, what do you think you are doing..."

"I should be the one asking you that, Uncle!" she shouted. Podrick flinched at the rage in her voice, while Ser Arys tried to look somewhere else. "I just heard what you have done! How dare you, without even consulting me..."

"Can I at least know what it is that you are angry about?"

"Don't play innocent! You know what I am talking about. Sansa Stark!"

Kevan still didn't understand. "What of her?"

"You annulled her betrothal to Joffrey!"

 _Oh, that..._ "It was within my powers to do so. And why are you so angry about it? The king can't marry the daughter of a traitor."

"And Lancel can?"

"Lancel is not the king." he answered. Although aware of his son's flaws, Kevan had considered him the best candidate for Sansa Stark's new betrothal. That way, after the end of the war, the North would firmly stay in the hands of House Lannister. And Kevan's grandchildren would inherit one of the Seven Kingdoms. He was sure that Tywin would approve of this choice.

Cersei, though, didn't seem to like it that much. "Uncle, you can't do such a thing without talking to me, first. I am the Queen Regent..."

"No, Cersei. You are the Queen Dowager. And I am the Hand of the King. I make the choices regarding the realm and advice His Grace until he comes of age and can rule on his own." Kevan said firmly. "We have all seen the results of your rule."

"I didn't tell Joffrey to have Lord Stark executed! He did it all on his own!"

"And who is it that let him do it? Who is it that raised him?"

His niece didn't answer. She must have known she was as guilty as Joffrey, if not more. If she had raised her son properly, now they would have less enemies to deal with.

She made to speak again. "I..."

"You will no more bother me with such trivialities. Ser Arys, please escort my niece back to her chambers."

The white-cloaked knight nodded and cleared his troath. Cersei looked at him with for a moment, her eyes full of rage, and then walked out of the door without saying a word. Ser Arys hurriedly bowed and muttered a "My Lord Hand", and then followed Cersei.

Kevan sighed and sunk back in his chair. He hadn't enjoyed being so harsh with Cersei, but it had been necessary. He brought a hand to his temple and groaned. He could already feel a headache forming.

He noticed that Podrick Payne was still in the room. "What is it, Podrick?"

The boy looked at him almost fearfully. "I...I am sorry, my lord. For letting her pass, I mean. She..."

"You have nothing to apologize for." he said. "Now, please just leave and close the door."

Podrick gulped, nodded and then finally left the room, closing the door as he did.

Kevan closed his eyes and started massaging his temple. _Seven help me..._

 **XXXXXX**

 **Sandor**

He stepped further into the godswood and saw her. "There you are." She was kneeling in front of a tree, an oak by the looks of it.

Sansa Stark gasped and jerked her head in his direction. For a moment she just stared. "You...you scared me, m-my lord." she said, the fear never leaving her eyes as she looked at him.

Sandor snorted. "I'm no lord."

"Then, Ser..."

"And neither I'm a knight!" he snapped, and the girl flinched. He grimaced. "Look, just call me Hound."

The girl nodded, without taking her eyes off him. "Y-yes, my...Hound."

He went closer to her. "What were you doing?"

"I was praying. For...for my father, and...for the king, praying that he'd not be hurt."

He snickered. "And you expect me to believe that?" That she was praying, he could believe. He knew the northmen prayed their gods in front of trees. That the prayers were for her father, that too he could believe. But praying for Joffrey's well-being? "You're such a bad liar...hear my advice, little bird: better learn fast how to lie convincingly, or else you won't last long in this city." After years spent dealing with lords and ladies and their shit, he could tell with absolute certainty that the world of King's Landing worked either through brutal strength or golden lies. And if you wanted to survive, you had to be good in at least one of those two things.

The girl's hands were shaking. "I wasn't lying. I...I really..."

"Go tell that someone else!" He grabbed her by the shoulder and forced her to stand.

She screamed. "Please...please, don't hurt me..."

Sandor let go of her shoulder. "I'm not going to hurt you." He took a good look at her. She looks almost a woman. Face, teats, and all. He shook his head. "Now, tell me. Who were you praying for? And this time, tell me the fucking truth!"

Sansa Stark gulped, and then, after a few moments of silence, spoke. "I was praying for my father's soul, and...f-for my brother Robb. For his victory."

He nodded. "You love your brother, don't you?" In front of Joffrey, the girl had called her brother a traitor. Sandor knew it was another lie.

"I...yes, I do. Like any sister loves her brother."

 _Any sister..._ Somehow, those words reminded Sandor of a different time. A better, simpler time, now so far in the past that sometimes the memories seemed to fade. A time when he still believed that there was some good in the world, when his face hadn't yet been touched by the fire. A time when...

He forced himself to banish those thoughts. _You stupid dog!_ The past was the past, it was pointless dwelling on it. _You..._

"Hound..."

Sandor instantly came back to reality. "What?"

"You were staring at me, without talking. Are you...all right?"

"I..." He shook his head. "Forget it. Are you done with your prayers?"

She nodded.

"Good. Now, come with me. I'll take you back to your cage, little bird."

The girl looked at him in confusion. "But Ser Arys..."

"I sent him back to the tower. And forget about him. From now on, I'll be the one to escort you to the godswood or anywhere else. Orders of the Hand."

Kevan Lannister seemed to care about Sansa Stark's safety a little more than Joffrey or his mother. Although it was probably just because of her claim to Winterfell. Whatever it was, Sandor was glad he didn't have to guard the royal shit anymore.

The Stark girl made to speak again, but Sandor stopped her. "Just come with me. I'm tired of standing here."

She did as he told her, and together they left the godswood.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Yohn**

Sitting at a desk in his solar, Yohn Royce listened as Maester Helliweg finished reading a letter from Lady Anya Waynwood.

"...therefore, House Waynwood will stand with House Royce." said the old man, who then rolled the parchment, putting it in a pocket of his gray robe. "Another good news, my lord, if I may say so."

Yohn nodded. "Indeed, Maester. Good news indeed."

House Waynwood was just the latest of the noble houses to side with the coalition which Yohn had temporarily called "the Lords Declarant". Said coalition was born the day that the news of Ned Stark's death had reached Gulltown. Lord Gerold Grafton had been its first adherent, and many other lords had followed him. Now, although not all of the Vale houses were a part of this coalition, Yohn had enough support that Lady Arryn would have to take him seriously. He was sure that a united front would be enough to make her see reason. And then, gods willing, the knights of the Vale would march against the Lannisters before it was too late.

The only thing he was worried about was Petyr Baelish. That upjumped grifter had somehow managed to escape King's Landing, and was now in the Vale. Yohn had never liked Baelish, had never trusted him. How he had managed to rise so high in Gulltown first and in King's Landing then was beyond him, although he had his suspicions. And the thought of Baelish, a lord of the lowest order and with an ambiguous reputation, in the Eyrie as Lady Arryn's new husband, deeply unnerved him. He still didn't understand how that scoundrel had managed to convince her to marry him. He had surely taken advantage of her weakness. Until now, he had been quiet, but Yohn was sure he was plotting something. He and the other members of the coalition would have to be very careful. If the need arose, Yohn was ready to take care of Baelish.

And maybe, the man he was about to meet would help him with that.

"And now, I think it's time I talked with our guest." Yohn said.

"Do you want to receive him here, Lord Royce?" the maester asked him.

"Yes, Maester."

"Very well." The maester rose from his seat, bowed and left the room. Yohn readied himself for the meeting. This was a crucial moment, and he couldn't afford to make any mistakes.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in." The door opened, and Maester Helliweg entered together with a much younger man.

"My lord, Ser Justin of House Massey." said the old man, and the young knight bowed.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord of Royce." said Ser Justin, smiling.

"Welcome in my solar, Ser Justin. It is a pleasure for me to meet you, too. Please, take a seat." said Yohn, and the other man occupied one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Maester Helliweg, it would be better if you stayed here. We may need your services soon."

"As you wish, my lord." answered the maester.

Yohn waited for Helliweg to sit, and then turned his attention to Massey. "Now, Ser Justin, I think it's better we started talking right now about the important sides of the matter at hand..."

 _ **AN:**_ _And here's another chapter, fresh out of the oven. I apologize in advance if the writing isn't particularly good or the characters are a little OOC. As a writer, I still have a lot to learn, and writing helps me improve. Hopefully, my next fic will be better. Oh, and in case you're wondering, I'm not going to include a Sandor/Sansa romance. Why? For two reasons. One, I dislike that pairing. Two, I'm not good at writing romance._

 _That's all for today. Gods willing, in two weeks you'll be able to read another chapter, and you'll finally find out whether Jaime is alive or not._

 _See you soon, dear readers, and thanks again for your patience!_


	9. Chapter 8

_**AN:**_ _I had to post this chapter a little earlier because tomorrow I'll be busy with some RL stuff (after which, if everything goes as it should, I'll finally have a job). Enjoy it!_

 **Chapter 8**

 _"There is only one god, and His name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death: 'not today'."_ _ **-Syrio Forel**_

 **Jaime**

"...the bear, the bear, and the maiden fair." Jaime finished singing and turned to his audience. "I feel like I have improved a little since the last time. What do you think, Maester?"

The grey rat, which he had taken on calling Maester because of the color of its fur, looked at him and squeaked.

"Hmm...you are right." he nodded. "I don't know many other songs, though."

Just then, the rat leapt from the pile of straw near Jaime's feet and disappeared somewhere into the darkness of the cell.

"How rude...leaving without even saying goodbye." Jaime shook his head and grimaced. "What in seven hells am I doing? Talking to a fucking rat..." he muttered to himself. Not that he had much choice in that regard. He was the only occupant of his cell, and seldom received visits. The guards came once a day to bring him food and sometimes clean straw for the floor, and never paid him too much attention. The maester, the real one, hadn't come in a while; once it had become clear that Jaime was going to survive his wounds, the old man hadn't deemed him in need of constant care anymore. Not that they had ever given him some kind of special treatment. Just the bare minimum to keep him alive. And alive he was, although thinner, with a longer beard, in need of a bath. And without his sword arm.

That was the part that he hated the most. He could deal with being kept prisoner in a dark and smelly dungeon and having nobody to talk to. But losing his right arm, the part of his body that had made him famous throughout the realm, was a living torment to him. Sometimes he wished they had executed him. He had expected it, given what he had done to the wolf pup and his uncle. Instead, they had kept him alive. He supposed it had something to do with his value as a hostage.

But would he really be that useful? So far his lord father hadn't sent someone to negotiate, or else he would be free by now. Jaime chuckled at the thought. _Would he? And would it work?_ In such a state of things, negotiations were extremely unlikely. No, Jaime knew deep down that he would spend the rest of the war in the dungeons of Riverrun, and that he would leave them either to join the victorious Lannister host or to meet the blade of the executioner.

And if the latter really happened...well, he would go to his death with his head held high. He would show them all how a lion died. With pride, and roaring defiantly at his foes.

Of course, that wasn't how he wanted to die. If he had a say in the matter, he would choose to die in his own bed, between Cersei's arms and after a long night of love. He smiled, imagining his sister's golden hair between his fingers, her soft bosom against his chest and her warm legs intertwined with his own. Gods, how he missed her! He would give anything to see her once again, even if just for one last time before his death. He would hug her and kiss her, and they would laugh together like they used to when they were children and...

He sighed. Thinking about what he would or would not do had no pratical use. It could not magically make him escape from there. However, at least it could help him deal with the loneliness of the cell. Captive he may be, but in his mind, he was free. He could imagine whatever he wanted.

He smiled, thinking of a naked Cersei on a bed waiting for him, and started singing again.

"Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair..."

 **XXXXXX**

 **Yohn**

His blade penetrated his opponent's body like a knife with butter. The young knight screamed. Yohn pulled the sword out of the younger man's body and watched as he fell on the ground and died.

 _So young...forgive me, boy._

All around him, men fought, screamed and died. Royce and Grafton men-at-arms against Arryn guards led by Ser Vardis Egen, who was currently busy in a one-on-one combat with Lord Gerold Grafton. It was a brutal thing to behold; both men were skilled warriors, near the same age, and both were determined to not let other one win. Only the gods knew which of them would come out of the fight alive.

 _Warrior, give me strength_ , he thought as he clashed against another Arryn knight. He and Grafton had to win this fight at all costs. He didn't like it, though. Fighting against fellow valemen was something that he'd wanted to avoid. However, he supposed he had to expect it. Given the latest events, something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. And he wasn't even sure who was to blame, if himself, or someone else. He was just doing what he thought was right. But his current opponents, too, were doing what they thought was right. It was a complicated affair, to say the least.

He had gone to meet with Lord Grafton in the latter's solar, to tell him about his recent encounter with Ser Justin Massey, when Maester Boros had come announcing the arrival of Ser Vardis. The old knight had came to Gulltown with a retinue of guards on Lady Arryn's orders, as he had announced them when they had gone to meet him in the courtyard of the castle. And those orders were to arrest Yohn, Lord Grafton, and the other Lords Declarant for high treason. Somehow Lady Arryn had learned of Massey's meeting with Yohn, and was convinced that they were going to side with Stannis in order to overthrow her and her son and end House Arryn's rule on the Vale.

That was as far from the truth as one could get. Yohn and the other Lords Declarant were working for the good of the Vale and House Arryn. They wanted to attack the Lannister host in the Riverlands before the lions managed to defeat the Starks and Tullys and turned their gaze on the Vale. As Yohn had pointed out to Lord Grafton, the death of the Imp had made all the valemen guilty in the eyes of Tywin Lannister. A preemptive strike was their only choice. The only one Yohn wanted to overthrow was Petyr Baelish. That man had to be stopped before he could put any more poison into Lady Arryn's mind. And siding with Stannis Baratheon would allow him to do it.

That is, if he managed to come out of the current fight alive. The knight he was now facing was really good, and his companions seemed to be on the same level of skills. No doubt they had been well trained. However, he too was a good fighter, and could have a chance to succeed if he concentrated and didn't let his guard down. Although, he wouldn't mind some help...

 _Gods damn it, Grafton! Where are your other guards?_ Maester Boros had gone to call for help, but he hadn't yet returned. Where was he...

Almost as if to answer his thoughts, suddenly his opponent screamed. Yohn watched as he fell on his back, an arrow protruding from his troath. He looked around himself, and saw dozens of Grafton archers surrounding the courtyard. They were many, more than the Arryn knights.

 _Finally..._

"SURRENDER, NOW!" screamed one of them, probably their commander. Realizing they were outnumbered, the Arryn knights still alive dropped their swords and raised their hands. Yohn noticed only then that Ser Vardis was laying dead at Lord Grafton's feet. He felt a pang of guilt for that. He had known the old knight, and respected him. _You didn't deserve this._ He had a feeling that Ser Vardis wouldn't be the last valeman to die in such a meaningless way.

The Lord of Gulltown was panting. The fight seemed to have exhausted him, but otherwise he looked unharmed. He turned his eyes on Yohn, and some moments passed before he spoke. "Royce...you know what this means, don't you?" he said, his hands still around the hilt of his sword.

Yohn nodded. What had just happened wasn't something that could easily be ignored, and it could only lead to one thing. "Yes..."

 **XXXXXX**

 **Petyr**

Walking back and forth in his bedchamber, Petyr was seething with rage.

 _Gods damn it! Why can't things ever go according to plans?_

Once again, his plans had been ruined by unpredictable circumstances. The first time, it had happened because of Tyrion Lannister and his sudden death on the road to the Eyrie. This time, it was because of two different people: Lysa, and Stannis Baratheon.

He had been at the Fingers for little more than a week, to talk with some of the local lords (lords on whom he could count for support against Royce), when two terrible news had reached him. Stannis Baratheon had sent an envoy to talk with Bronze Yohn, while Lysa had sent her guards to arrest Royce and his allies. That had sent him into a panic, and he had been forced to go back to the Eyrie.

He was beyond furious, and to be honest he didn't know who was to blame. Lysa had acted without consulting him first, thinking that Royce was going to usurp the lordship of the Vale. Petyr scoffed at that. Royce would never do such a thing. He was a stupidly honorable and loyal man, just like Ned Stark. No, Royce had something else in mind, and Petyr was sure that something else concerned him.

And Stannis...gods, that man. He had never liked him, and he knew that the feeling was mutual. Over the years, during the sessions of the Small Council, or even when they met in the corridors of the Red Keep, Stannis kept on sending suspicious glances at him. He had never trusted Petyr. Not that he could blame him, of course. If he were him, he would do the same.

He should have predicted this. Stannis needed allies, and the North and the Riverlands weren't enough to win the war. _But did he really have to send someone here? Couldn't he choose Dorne? Or even the Iron Islands?_ As he soon as he thought that, he shook his head. _No, the Dornish wouldn't trust him, and the ironborn are unreliable_. Of course he would send someone to the Vale.

However, now Royce and his allies had an outside support. And while Stannis didn't have as many troops as his brother Renly, that was a big problem. Especially with what he could do without actually sending material aid...

He clenched his fists. Through his envoy, Stannis had ordered Petyr's arrest for high treason. He almost chuckled at that. He thought that Petyr was gathering support amongst the Vale lords in order to declare for Renly. _Renly, of all people!_ Well, if Petyr had to be honest with himself, there was a bit of truth in that. He had considered declaring for Stannis' younger brother, but only once it was clear that he was winning. Doing it now would be foolish. He didn't have any particular loyalties for the young stag, but he was his best and only option. The lions would have his head as soon as they got their claws on him, just like Stannis. He had even briefly considered the young Targaryen girl across the Narrow Sea, but had soon dismissed the idea. That would have been beyond stupid.

No, Petyr's only option was to wait for Stannis and the Lannisters to bleed each other out, then declare for Renly. Meanwhile, he would take care of Yohn Royce and his allies. Petyr had some lords on his side, and he was sure he could find more. Not all of the main lords of the Vale were part of Royce's coalition, and most importantly, not all of them wanted to join the war in the Riverlands. Using the right tools, he could convince them to fight against the Lords Declarant. And with some luck, Petyr's plans would succeed.

Petyr sighed. He would have to be very careful, even more so than before. Because now, he was going to deal with the last thing he had ever wanted. The last thing he needed.

A civil war in the Vale.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

 _"I like dogs better than knights. A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you straight in the face."_

 _ **-Sandor Clegane**_

 **Kevan**

The herald cried an end, and the hall began to empty. Kevan watched as the assembled crowd dispersed, some of them looking at him from the corner of their eyes before leaving. Among them, Ser Alliser Thorne. The black brother had a frustrated look on his face, almost sad. He looked at Kevan for a moment, almost as if he wanted to say something, but just then a Lannister guardsman ushered him out of the hall.

 _What did he expect?_ thought Kevan. He had come to the Red Keep telling a strange story about dead men coming back to life, claiming to have one of their hands in a jar as proof. But the jar had rotten to pieces, while Ser Alliser waited to be received. Kevan had managed to suppress a chuckle as he heard that. It would have been rude to laugh right in his face. Of course it had rotten, it was a dead man's hand! And dead men didn't walk, neither did they attack people. Did Ser Alliser really expect they would believe such a ridiculous story? Was the Night's Watch so desperate as to resort to inventing fanciful tales about snarks and grumkins? He knew they had a perpetual need of men, so he had ordered Ser Jacelyn Bywater to take Thorne to the city dungeons. That way, the black brothers would get some more men to hold their precious Wall, and King's Landing would have some less mouths to feed.

 _Food, that's something worthy worrying about, not absurd claims about dead men_. Gods only knew how the city would survive, if the blockade of food from the Reach lasted even just a little longer. Since his arrival in King's Landing, Kevan had already had to suppress two small riots, and there were whispers about some inhabitants of Flea Bottom resorting to cannibalism. He shuddered at the thought, and hoped it was all just rubbish, like Ser Alliser's tale.

Kevan rose from the Iron Throne, his limbs and back aching. _Why did he have to make it like this?_ The throne was a tangle of nasty barbs and jagged metal teeth. Anyone who tried to recline on it, would soon receive a nasty reminder of why the Iron Throne bore that name. Aegon the Conqueror had intended for his successors to never be too comfortable while they ruled, so that they would constantly remember how being a king was no easy task.

 _Or maybe he was just a sadist, and now his ghost laughs every time a king cuts himself on the throne._ Kevan was very careful every time he had to sit on it, and so far he had managed to avoid any cuts.

As he descended the steps, his thoughts turned once again to the war. More specifically, to Stannis Baratheon.

 _...my brother Robert, our late king, left no trueborn issue of his body, the boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen, and the girl Myrcella being abominations born of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother Ser Jaime the Kingslayer..._

Kevan grimaced. How could Stannis make up such a tremendous lie? To think he had always been renown for his honesty...Did he really hate Cersei and her children so much? Or was it some kind of late revenge against Robert, usurping his son's birthright just like Stannis had been robbed of Storm's End? He didn't know. What he did know, was that they had to win the war before it was too late. To do that, they needed allies. And hopefully, they would find them. Lord Lefford had sailed a few days ago for Sunspear, to negotiate with Prince Doran Martell. Kevan knew that the chances of success were minimal; the Dornish knew how to hold a grudge, and had never forgotten the brutal death of Princess Elia and her children. However, he also knew that the Lannisters didn't have many other options, and therefore had to at least try.

As he touched the last step, he noticed Varys walking toward him, a strange look on his face. Kevan frowned. He didn't trust the enigmatic eunuch, but he couldn't get rid of him as easily as he would have liked. He was too useful. "Lord Varys." Kevan greeted him.

The other man bowed his head. "My Lord Hand." he said. "May I borrow a moment of your time?"

"What is it?"

"There are important news that need to be heard as soon as possible, my lord. I just received a letter from one of my little birds."

Kevan stopped and stared at Varys. "Is it about the war?" Whatever it was, he hoped it was something good.

Varys smiled. "In a way it is, my Lord Hand. The letter concernes some recent events in the Vale. And I am quite sure you will like what I am about to tell you..."

 **XXXXXX**

 **Sandor**

"...and then Arya said, "What that's supposed to mean?", and we all laughed." Sansa Stark said with a smile, kneeling in front of the heart tree.

Standing beside her, Sandor just nodded. He had been doing that for at least half an hour, since before they entered the godswood.

 _How in seven hells can she talk so much?_

He should have been used to it, by now. It had been quite some time since he had began escorting the Stark girl. Through the corridors of the Red Keep, at court, and more often, into the godswood, where she spent at least an hour every evening before retiring to her chambers for the night. And yet, the impossible amount of words that came out of her mouth still surprised him.

He found it a little annoying. He had never liked people who talked too much, mostly because usually they did it to hide their own faults or to deceive other people. Sandor had met plenty of men and women like this. They seemed to particularly proliferate in the royal court, like flies around a pile of shit.

However, that wasn't Sansa Stark's case. The girl just talked about things from her past, from her life before leaving Winterfell for King's Landing. Her fights with her little sister, the days spent playing with her brothers, the dreams she had, her now dead direwolf. Sandor had learned more about her than what he would have ever wanted or cared to know.

As far as he knew, she had never talked that much in her previous days as...guest of the royal court. He supposed it had something to do with her feeling more at ease around him. That was something really odd to think about. Most people were at least intimidated by his presence, what with the scars on his face, his imposing size and his grumpy demeanor. Others were outright scared, especially when he looked at them with a murderous intent. The Stark girl too had been like that at first. She used to look at him with fear in her eyes, and always spoke with a timid voice. And yet, after a while that had changed. Now, she talked to him as if he were one of her own household guards, or even an old friend.

In fact, from a certain point of view, to her he was a friend. He looked out for her, spent a lot of time with her, and listened to her whenever she had something to say.

 _You're no friend of hers, you stupid dog!_ His inner voice said. _Just her sworn shield. You did the same shit for Joffrey, and never once you thought of yourself as his friend._

The girl was different from Joffrey, though. Nice to look at, first. Sandor was sure she would get even more beautiful as she got older. Not arrogant or stupid at all, although she was still a little naive about knights and how the world worked. Her only flaw, aside from all that talking.

And if he had to be honest with himself, he didn't completely despise the time he spent with her. The girl wasn't such an unpleasant company, after all, compared to the royal shit and his mother. He supposed he had to be grateful for that. I could still be stuck with Joffrey. He almost shuddered at the thought.

Also, there was something about the girl, something about the way she talked and acted around him, that reminded Sandor of someone from his past. Someone long gone, who had died because of him. Someone he should have...

He shook his head. _When did I become so emotional?_ He snorted. _Just don't think about it, you stupid old dog. Just do your fucking duty._ He looked at the girl. "It's late, now, little bird. We'd better go back to your chambers, before they start thinking we've run away."

The girl nodded at him. "Yes, Hound." She rose to her feet and turned toward the exit. Sandor just followed her, without uttering another word, a scowl on his face and many thoughts running through his head.

 _Seven fucking hells..._

 **XXXXXX**

 **Brynden**

He approached the tent, and the northmen standing guard saluted him. "Ser Brynden, Lord Stark is resting and does not wish to be disturbed." said one of them, a young man barely old enough to shave.

Brynden nodded. "I am sure he will make an exception for me, boy. Now, please, let me pass. There are urgent matters that need to be addressed as soon as possible."

"As you wish, ser." The guards stepped aside, and Brynden entered Robb's tent.

He expected to find the boy sleeping somewhere, maybe with Grey Wind at his side like always. Instead, Robb was sitting on a chair, alone, his back to Brynden. He didn't seem to hear him, so maybe he was really sleeping, or just very deep in thought.

"Robb, it's me. We need to talk." No answer came. He supposed he was asleep. He got near the boy and spoke louder. "Robb!"

Still nothing. He put a hand on his shoulder and shook him. "Wake up, boy!"

He didn't answer. Brynden heard a strange noise coming from Robb's mouth, similar to...an animal growl? He looked at his face and gasped. Robb's mouth was half open, and his right eye...Gods, what is that?...his right eye was fully white. He started to worry. _Is he sick? Should I call a maester?_ He put both hands on Robb's shoulders and shook him harder. "ROBB!"

Just then, the boy gasped. His entire body shook, and then his eye went back to normal. He looked at Brynden. "Uncle..."

"Robb, what in seven hells were you doing?"

The tent opened and the two guards peeked in. "Is everything all right, Lord Stark?"

"Don't worry, my uncle was just having some troubles waking me up." said Robb. "You can go back to your duties."

"Yes, my lord." The guards followed the order, and Robb turned to Brynden. "Uncle, what are you doing..."

"What am I doing? What were YOU doing! Robb, I thought you were sick! You were growling, and your eye...what the fuck was that?"

Robb looked at him in embarrassment, almost as if he had been caught doing something that he shouldn't be doing. "I was...well..." He sighed. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Brynden raised an eyebrow. "Robb, if there is something you are too embarrassed to talk about..."

"No, it's not that. It's...something hard to believe, you could say."

"Well, then try to tell me. I heard all manners of strange tales, in my lifetime."

The boy nodded. "All right. First, take a seat." Brynden took a nearby stool and sat in front of Robb.

"So, boy, what is happening? What were you doing before I came here?" he said, resting his hands on his thighs.

Robb cleared his throat. "Uncle Brynden...do you know what a warg is?"

Brynden nodded. He had heard legends about wargs and their abilities. However, he didn't understand why Robb had brought up this argument. "What does this have to do with you?"

"Well, it all began after my duel with the Kingslayer. Perhaps even because of it." he answered. "While I was recovering, all I could think of was how useless I was now. I wondered if there was something that I could do to change that. And then, one night, I had a strange dream. I was running through the woods. I could feel the cold air on my skin, the noises of the other animals. Then, I arrived near a river. I looked into the water, and saw Grey Wind's face. I woke up screaming.

"It happened again, until I realized I wasn't dreaming. I was actually seeing things through Grey Wind's eyes! Somehow, I had managed to enter his mind." He paused. "I thought it was a gift from the Old Gods, a way to compensate for the loss of my eye and arm. So, I decided to take advantage of it. Since that day, I've been using Grey Wind as an extension of my body."

Brynden stared at Robb in disbelief. "So...that's what you were doing earlier?"

"Exactly."

"Hmm..." he muttered. A warg. Robb was a warg. Brynden couldn't believe his ears. It was all so strange. Until yesterday, if someone asked him, he would have said that wargs were just legends. And Robb had basically told him that they were real. It was difficult to believe. "Are you sure it's not some kind of dream? Maybe hallucinations caused by too much milk of the poppy?"

"Believe me, Uncle, it's all true. I too thought it was just a dream, at first." Robb said. "Once, Grey Wind killed a deer, and I could taste its blood in my mouth afterwards. It was...it was as if I had killed it myself."

It all sounded like something out of a song. And yet, it had to be true. Robb had no reason to lie to him. "Does someone else know about this?"

"Just you and me, Uncle."

"Good, then we would better keep this to ourselves. Gods know what would happen if the news spread." At the very least, everybody would think that Robb had lost his wits. "Be very careful when you...when you do your thing."

The boy thanked him, and silence filled the tent. After a few moments, Brynden remembered something.

"Seven hells, I almost forgot why I came here in the first place!" he suddenly said.

"What is it, Uncle Brynden?"

"You must come with me. And order your guards to call all of your battle commanders. I already called mine. An envoy from King Stannis has just arrived in our camp..."


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

 _"Was there ever a war where only one side bled?"_

 _ **-Brynden Tully**_

 **Davos**

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and grunted. "Finally." Only now he was being able to stop, after what seemed like an eternity of fighting. More like a few hours, probably. He had lost track of time. He touched the pouch containing his missing finger joints, grateful once again for their usefulness. Twice today, Davos had been close to personally meeting the Stranger, and twice he had avoided that fate. He and the men he had fought alongside here at Ashemark had truly earned their victory.

His horse snorted. Davos gently stroke the animal's hair. "You are tired too, aren't you?" He had never felt that weary. He supposed it was partially due to old age. Not that he was already a grey beard, but he wasn't a green boy, either.

 _Admit it, Davos. You are getting old. The young smuggler that had once defied the Redwyne fleet is long gone._ He sighed. Sometimes he found it hard to believe how much time had passed since then, and most importantly how much his life had changed in that time.

He had been a smuggler at first. Probably the best in the whole Narrow Sea. Then, after bringing food to the starving garrison of Storm's End, he had been knighted. His family had received a keep on Cape Wrath, with servants and woods to hunt in. He had gone to sailing a war galley in place of a smuggler's skiff, and didn't have to fear for his sons' future anymore. Since that fateful day, his life had been dedicated to House Baratheon of Dragonstone. He had been Stannis' closest friend (possibly his only friend, as he sometimes thought) and advisor.

And now, he was something more. He was Davos Seaworth, Lord of the Rainwood, and Hand of King Stannis Baratheon, his representative among the Stark and Tully forces. A huge step, for someone born in the poorest part of King's Landing.

 _If Mother could see me now..._

Just then, he heard someone approaching and turned. "Ser Brynden. I had lost sight of you. I trust you are well?" he said, noticing who it was on the other horse.

The Blackfish made his mount stop and nodded at him. "I am fine, my Lord Hand. Just a little tired. The siege was more troublesome than we all expected. And I am not a green boy anymore."

Davos nodded. "We should have left it all to those young men of yours that seemed so eager for blood, then." All of Ser Brynden's rivermen had seen their homeland devastated by Lannister troops, or had lost kin because of them. And they all wanted to pay the westermen back in kind. The northmen, on the other hand, just wanted to avenge the late Lord Eddard, at least as far as Davos could tell.

"Or maybe to those Essosi sellswords who accompanied you." answered the other man with a chuckle. "I have to admit it, I never put too much faith in their ilk, and yet they managed to surprise me. They fought better than I expected."

"I am sure the Tattered Prince will be happy to hear it." And he will be even happier once we pay him. When Stannis had ordered him to sail to Braavos first to recruit a sellsword company and then go to the Riverlands, the first thing Davos had thought of was how to pay them. Stannis' coffers weren't as full as those of the Lannisters, and he already had some sellswords in his employ. However, a solution had soon presented itself: plunder and war indemnities. The Westerlands were rich, and a lot of that wealth would be used to pay the sellswords, once the war was over.

 _Assuming we win, that is_ , thought Davos touching again the small pouch.

Ser Brynden coughed. "Well, now that it's all over, would you like to drink something with me and the other commanders? We must celebrate today's victory, after all."

"Why not? There is no better way to celebrate a victory than drinking yourself into a stupor." answered Davos. He really felt like drinking something, and not just to quench his thirst. He enjoyed being in Ser Brynden's company. The Tully knight was a honest and loyal man, and sometimes he reminded Davos of Stannis.

"Good. Follow me, then. Lord Umber has already found some good wine and ale. Courtesy of the local lord, of course."

Davos and Ser Brynden laughed loudly and went to celebrate their victory.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Victarion**

"BALON! BALON KING! BALON KING!"

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"

On Nagga's Hill, the words echoed through the great white ribs as the men cheered and shouted their new king's name over and over.

"BALON! BALON KING!"

Victarion was in a place of honor in the front of the crowd, while the other captains of the Iron Fleet had placed themselves all around him. The rest of the Grey King's Hall was occupied by the main lords of the islands and some Drowned Men, the acolytes of the Drowned God. Balon and Tarle the Thrice-Drowned stood in front of everybody, the former smiling triumphantly after the latter had placed the driftwood crown on his head. Nearby, Asha and Aeron watched all this with pride. The only one missing was Alannys, Balon's lady wife and now queen. She was forced to stay on her home island of Harlaw because of her poor health.

"BALON! BALON KING! GLORY TO THE DROWNED GOD!"

It was the moment everybody had been waiting for. Now, after centuries of submission to the greenlander kings, the ironborn would regain their independence. And everybody, especially the northmen, would once again learn to fear the longships and the men from the Iron Islands. Victarion knew it wouldn't be easy. He knew that lots of blood would be shed, that he himself risked dying. He didn't care. If that happened, it would mean he had died fighting for his people, and the Drowned God would welcome him in his watery halls. That was the best death he could ever hope for.

Just then, Balon made a gesture with both hands, and the assembled ironborn fell silent. He looked at all of them, his eyes stopping for a moment on Victarion, and then he spoke.

"Men of the Iron Islands...servants of the Drowned God...let me first thank you all for being here at my kingsmoot. I am pleased to see this proof of your loyalty. Rest assured that it shall be rewarded!"

The crowd cheered again, with many captains applauding.

"Today is a great day. After ten years of misery, after that terrible day where our glorious advance was stopped, we rise again, harder and stronger!"

Victarion shouted together with the crowd. Balon, smiling, waited until they all fell silent again, then resumed talking.

"I am sure you all remember that day, my lords. Our ships sunken, their brave crew sent to the Drowned God. Our home islands invaded by the greenlander scum. And my sons...our sons and brothers and friends, dead because of them. The greenlanders thought they had broken us, that we would simply bend the knee and forget everything. But they were wrong! And today, we will show them how much!"

There was another round of applause, and this time Victarion thought he had seen Nagga's ribs trembling.

"You all know what is going on in the green lands. The lions and the wolves are slowly bleeding each other out, and the stags are about to clash. There could be no better time to exact our vengeance! We will strike at them with all the might of the Iron Fleet, and by the time they realize what is happening, it will be too late, for we will already have sliced their throat! And once their war will be over, they will be too weak for even just trying to face us! We will rule uncontested!

"It isn't going to be easy, though, and many of those who are here today will surely die. Even I could die, before our conquest is complete. If that happens, I want you all to not be sad, but rejoice, for I will be with the Drowned God and all the other brave warriors who gave their lives for their people!

"And if this is to be the case, I want you to take my daughter Asha as your queen. I know what you are thinking, that a woman has never sat the Seastone Chair. But Asha is no mere woman! She is my daughter, the kraken's daughter! She is as fierce a warrior as any of you. Follow her as you would follow me!"

Many of the assembled ironborn surely had doubts about a woman becoming their ruler, to say the least. Victarion too had had some, at first. However, he knew he would do anything in his power to support his niece, once she became queen. Doing the opposite would mean defying Balon's wishes. And that was something he would never do.

"But enough with words." Balon continued. "I already talked too much. Now it's time to let our swords and axes do the talking. For tomorrow, as soon as the sun rises, the Iron Fleet will leave for the green lands, and our rebirth will truly begin. What is dead may never die..."

"...BUT RISES AGAIN, HARDER AND STRONGER!" shouted the crowd, and Victarion's voice was the loudest.

"BALON KING! BALON KING!"

 **XXXXXX**

 **Brynden**

He looked at Robb's slumbering form first, and then at the maester. "How is he?"

The grey-robed man seemed to consider his words for a moment, and then spoke. "He is fine, my lord. At least, he seems to be. Before you came I gave him milk of the poppy to help him sleep, but so far he hasn't shown any signs of his previous fits. I think he is beginning to recover."

Brynden was happy to hear that, though he had doubts about it. Would Robb truly recover, after what had happened to him this time?

 _To think it was all going so well. We had won, for gods' sake!_

"Should I send a raven to Lady Catelyn, to warn her?" the other man asked him.

Brynden shook his head. "Absolutely not! The last thing we need now is my niece leaving Riverrun. As long as Robb isn't in any immediate danger of death, she must be kept unaware of his conditions. And even in that case, we would send the boy back to the Riverlands before warning her." He didn't like hiding things from Catelyn, but it was necessary. He knew his niece. As soon as she heard about Robb, she would leave the safety of Riverrun out of worry for her son and hurry to the Westerlands, right in the middle of a war zone. And that was something he couldn't allow. He had to take care of his family.

The maester nodded. "As you wish, my lord." Then, he added: "Now, I need to take care of the other wounded. Would you please stay here with Lord Stark until my return?"

"Of course." The maester bowed and went out of the tent, and Brynden was left alone with Robb. He sat nearby on a stool and grunted.

 _Seven fucking hells!_

It had all began two days ago, when they had finally met Ser Stafford Lannister's army in battle near Ashemark. Lord Tywin's goodbrother was by no means a capable commander, nor were his troops veteran soldiers. They were mostly young men who had barely had the time to learn how to use a sword. Nonetheless, the battle had been fierce, with many losses on both sides. In the end, Ser Stafford had been killed by a wrathful Lord Smalljon Umber, hungry for a chance to avenge his late father. The survivors of the Lannister army had retreated back to where they had come from. Northmen and rivermen alike had celebrated that victory, together with Lord Seaworth and his sellswords. Brynden, too, had been more than happy, for it meant that now the Old Lion would have no choice but to leave the Riverlands and come to fight them in his homeland.

However, that joy had been short-lived. Some hours after the battle, a northman had come bearing dire news. Grey Wind had been found dead, an arrow embedded in its throat. Brynden, being aware of the real nature of Robb's relationship with his direwolf, had thought that the boy already knew about this. He had gone to "personally inform him" for the sake of keeping up appearances, at first thinking that the boy would simply be saddened by the loss.

He had been wrong. As soon as he had approached Robb's tent, he heard the screams and the growls. When he entered, he saw Robb shaking, his head bent backward, and the maester desperately trying to hold him. He had done what he could to help, and in the end they had managed to calm the boy. Afterward, the maester informed him that Robb had been having fits like that ever since the morning. Brynden supposed it had began right after Grey Wind's death, but of course hadn't told the maester, who had somehow attributed all this to Robb's old wounds.

It was a convenient explanation, and since Brynden was the only other person to know the truth, everybody else would surely believe it. Any eventual rumors would easily be dismissed as rubbish.

The truth was...it was hard to believe, even to Brynden. The link that had allowed Robb to enter Grey Wind's mind had been abruptly severed by the direwolf's death. The boy had not only lost his closest companion, but also his way to compensate for the loss of his left eye and his sword arm. He had managed to be present on the battlefield through Grey Wind, while he himself stayed in his tent. Now, he would truly have to abandon any actual combat roles. And gods knew what other effects all this would have. Could Robb somehow completely lose his wits? Could he...could he even die? The maester had said that he was probably recovering, but still...

Brynden ran a hand through his grey hair and clenched his teeth. And then, he did the only thing he could do in such a situation.

He prayed.

 _ **AN:**_ _Remember when I said that the scenes aren't necessarily in chronological order? It's still true. It's also true that an indeterminate amount of time may sometimes pass between one scene and the other._

 _Brynden and Davos as drinking buddies is something I came up with while I was writing the POV, just like the last part of the chapter. At first, it should have been a Smalljon POV, but then I changed my mind. Don't worry, you'll see him again. Each of the characters you've seen so far will have at least two POVs, aside from three exceptions (Tyrion in the prologue, and other two that I can't say)._

 _See you in two weeks, folks!_


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

 _"No men in the Seven Kingdoms are as bold and true as the knights of the Vale."_

 _ **-Lysa Tully**_

 **Sandor**

The mug of strong ale was emptied in a single gulp. Sandor wiped his mouth with his free hand and then put the mug on the counter. "Another mug, Jonos.", he said, before belching loudly. Neither the innkeep nor the other customers complained. That was something typical for an inn, and they had all seen far worse.

The innkeep, a fat man named Jonos, took the mug and put it away for cleaning it later. "Are you sure, Sandor? You already drank more than usual, tonight."

"Just do your fucking job, you fat bastard!" growled Sandor, and Jonos chuckled. They had known each other for a while. Jonos' was Sandor's favorite inn in all of King's Landing. It was a good place, with good stuff to drink, and a nice brothel nearby. It was also the kind of place were you could always count on the customers starting a brawl, if you were looking for fun. Tonight was unusually quiet, though. Sandor didn't mind it. He was in no mood for a brawl.

Jonos filled another mug and gave it to Sandor. "Here. Now, please, pay me before you get too drunk to remember anything."

"I always pay, you bugger." Sandor took some coins from a pouch hanging from his belt and gave them to the innkeep.

"It never hurts to be careful. You can't even imagine how many drunkards manage to walk away from here without paying." Jonos said. "Luckily, most of my customers remember their duties, else I would become a beggar." He put the coins inside of his own pocket, and then went to serve another customer.

Sandor drunk from the new mug, soon emptying it. _Fucking hells, it's good._ Jonos' inn had somehow managed to acquire a lot of excellent ale and some bottles of wine (smuggling, no doubt), despite all the blockades that kept food from reaching the city. Stannis' ships guarded the Narrow Sea, and the Tyrells had stopped sending food from the Reach a while ago. It was a miracle that the citizens hadn't yet resorted to cannibalism...although Sandor had heard some unsettling rumors that had made his skin crawl. That was saying a lot. And riots were becoming a little too common for the Hand's taste. Sandor pitied Kevan Lannister. He had a lot to deal with, these days. The city's needs, the war...he was grateful for being a simple sworn shield.

Not that Sandor was without problems of his own. Most of these, though, were simple matters compared to managing a starving city or waging a war.

Recently, his sleep had been plagued by particularly vivid dreams. Now, if these dreams had been about naked maidens throwing themselves at him, he could have enjoyed them. However, what he had been dreaming about wasn't something so pleasant.

It usually involved his childhood, back when he still lived at his family's keep in the Westerlands. In one of the dreams, he was running from a monster that he couldn't see, but that judging from the growls had to be a very big dog. In another one, he was outside of a burning house. He desperately wanted to enter it, but was unable to because of his fear. Usually, this dream ended with him running away, or with him raising his head and noticing that there was someone at one of the windows.

This was the part that he hated the most. The part that hurt him the most. He always recognized the person at the window.

 _Alienor..._

He sometimes dreamt of her, but not like this. They were either running in a field, on a warm sunny day, or playing in the keep like when he was a child. In this new dream, Alienor was trapped, and screamed for him to come and save her. Sandor never managed to overcome his fear, though, and soon the screams faded as she was consumed by the fire.

And what was more unsettling, was that sometimes, Alienor had Sansa Stark's face. What that meant, he still failed to understand. He just knew he hated that dream. It made his sleep troublesome, and brought back bad memories that he had always tried to put aside.

 _If only there was someone I could talk to..._ But Sandor knew he had to solve this all by himself. None of the people he knew could be trusted with such delicate matters, and he was sure that even the maesters knew almost to nothing about dreams. Maybe a septon...he shook his head. In his eyes, the septons were just like the knights. And he wanted nothing to do with their lot.

 _Fuck this shit,_ he thought. _Fuck it all!_

Sandor put the mug on the counter and rose from the stool he had been sitting on. He grimaced. Only now he was noticing he had a little headache.

Jonos noticed him standing. "You leaving, Sandor?"

"Aye. See you tomorrow, Jonos."

The innkeep waved him goodbye and went back to his business. Sandor went toward the door stumbling a little. _I really drank too much, tonight._ He felt tired, too. That had been a long and particularly hard day. He wanted to go back to his room and sleep. But first, he would pay a visit to the nearby brothel. Maybe a whore could not solve all of his problems, but at the very least she could help him relieve part of that day's stress, and even if just for a few moments, she could make him forget about those dreams.

Sandor silently left the inn and walked toward the brothel.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Kevan**

Alone in his solar, Kevan read the letter from his brother at Harrenhal for the second time, almost as if he couldn't believe his own eyes.

 _...Before our departure, I sent Ser Gregor and his men to the countryside and left a small garrison at the castle, to slow down their advance. I expect them to march westward, but in case they set their course toward King's Landing, I want you and the royal court to leave and go to..._

Kevan cursed and closed the letter. It was pointless to read it again, he already knew its content. It was just...it was just too much to handle. He wished he had something strong to drink, or at least a way to relieve his stress. Were his wife here with him, Kevan could try to find solace in her arms. Dorna may not have been as beautiful as some of the other ladies of the realm, but in such a whirling world, she was solid and sure. And she always knew how to comfort him and make him forget his problems. Alas, she wasn't here, and Kevan had to deal with this mess all on his own.

When Varys had informed him about the civil war in the Vale, it had seemed like a blessing from the gods. Two factions, one led by Yohn Royce, and the other one led by Petyr Baelish with the backing of Lysa Arryn. The former wanted to declare for Stannis, while the latter was gathering support for Renly. Royce wanted to join the war in the Riverlands right now, and Baelish wanted to wait. It was unavoidable that the two sides would come to a fight.

Kevan had been wondering for some time what was going on in the Vale, how they would react to the war for the Iron Throne and if they were going to attack before the Lannisters came for them. Learning that the valemen would be dealing with a civil war for the foreseeable future had managed to bring a smile to his face for the first time in a while.

Two months had passed since then. And now, as Kevan had learned from Tywin's letter, and as his brother had learned from his outriders, a host had been sighted marching toward the border into the Riverlands. That could only mean one thing.

The civil war was over. And Yohn Royce had won.

 _Why? Why couldn't it last longer? And why did Royce have to win?_

The outriders' report had arrived right after the one about Ser Stafford's defeat. Two bad news in a row. So, Tywin had been forced to make a choice. He would go back to the Westerlands and deal with the Starks and Tullys once and for all. His forces outnumbered theirs, and he could always gather more troops from his bannermen. And after that, he would be ready to face the valemen.

However, that left King's Landing without any sizeable defenses. The gold cloaks and the sellswords Kevan had hired to strengthen the capital, together with the troops that the lords of the Crownlands could field, wouldn't be enough against a large army. And they couldn't even count on the Dornish for help! Lord Lefford had returned from Sunspear three weeks ago with a failure. Kevan didn't blame him. In fact, he had expected this result. However, he had still hoped for the negotiations to succeed.

 _At least, for now we don't have to worry about those two._

Once again, Kevan thanked the gods for sibling quarrels. If Stannis hadn't decided to besiege Storm's End, forcing his brother to halt his march along the Roseroad, they would all be in serious troubles. The two brothers were unlikely to come to an agreement. They would fight as soon as their hosts met. And Stannis would loose.

The thought still baffled him. Why had Stannis not joined his allies in the Riverlands? That would have been the logical step to take. Instead, he had sent there his Onion Knight, while he himself had gone to the Stormlands. Why, though? Was his desire to deal with Renly so strong as to tarnish his judgement? Stannis' host was considerably smaller than his brother's, and unless he had some kind of magical trick at his disposal, he had no chances of winning. Maybe all those years spent brooding on the supposed "injustices" done to him had finally made him lose his wits? Was he looking for a way to easily kill himself that wouldn't make him look too bad?

Kevan didn't know, and honestly, he didn't care. He was just grateful for that small blessing. Stannis' foolishness would give the Lannisters more time to take care of the other threats. His unavoidable defeat would mean one less enemy for them to deal with. And if, by chance, Renly were to die with him, all the better!

He had to be realistic, though. There was always the chance that things wouldn't go as he hoped. It was a grim prospect, but it could happen. He had to think of an emergency plan to evacuate the royal court and send them to a safe place.

And so, he spent the rest of the day in his solar, deep in thought.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Yohn**

The sun was high in the sky. Dozens of banners flapped in the wind. Thousands of men, on foot and horse alike, passed through the Bloody Gate. Carts carrying supplies followed them. The sound of voices, feet, and hooves could be heard for miles around.

The army of the Vale was marching to war.

It wasn't the entire fighting strength of the region, but it was still a powerful host and a sight to behold. Yohn was riding at the front, together with the other commanders. Some of them were members of the Lords Declarant, while others were simply there to represent those liege lords of theirs who had chosen to stay in the Vale. Lord Grafton was at his left side. The two of them had been spending a great deal of time together, as of late, and now Yohn could almost think of him as a friend.

"You know, whatever is going to happen, we are going to make history." said Grafton.

"Let's be sure to do it as victors, then." Yohn nodded. "I don't want to be remembered as the one who doomed the Vale." Gods know how many people already died because of me.

The civil war had been a short but bloody affair. Almost two months of fighting, with at first neither side gaining an advantage. Many people Yohn had known had died in the first weeks, including his cousin Nestor. Then, just when it seemed that the war would last long and drain the region's resources dry, Baelish's army had suffered a serious defeat near Ironoaks. That battle had been the first in a series of similar events that had led to the final confrontation, where the Lords Declarant had finally triumphed.

It had been a bittersweet victory, though. Yohn had never liked the idea of facing his fellow valemen, most of whom had simply fought out of loyalty toward Lady Arryn. Baelish had used that loyalty for his own ends, convincing them to fight against Yohn and his allies. One more reason to hate that filthy coward. Luckily, they had managed to catch him before he could leave the Vale. This time, his tricks hadn't been enough to save him, and now he was in a cell at Runestone, under close surveillance. Yohn was sure that King Stannis would like to have a word or two with Littlefinger, once the war was over. Maybe even with Lady Arryn, too.

 _Lady Arryn..._

Yohn tried to not think too much about her. She was a weak woman, and a coward, but she was his liege lord's mother. What he had done was too similar to a real rebellion for his tastes. It wasn't like sixteen years ago, when he had fought to overthrow the Mad King. Back then, things had been simpler. This time...things were different. And as much as he kept on telling himself that his actions had been for the good of House Arryn and the Vale, a small part of him didn't agree. Going against her wishes, leaving a blocking force outside of the Eyrie while the rest of the army left for the Riverlands...it all sounded too much like treason.

 _What should I have done, then?_ he thought as he rode on. _Wait for the Starks and Tullys to be defeated? Only to then face the Lannisters on our own soil?_ He was sure that would have been the final result, had he not acted. Still...

"Are you all right, Royce?" Grafton suddenly asked him.

Yohn came back to reality. "Yes, I am...I am all right. I was just thinking." he said, without entering into too many details.

The Lord of Gulltown seemed to understand what he was thinking about, though. "Let me guess...you feel guilty for what we have done."

Yohn just nodded.

"You aren't the only one, you know. At least half of the Lords Declarant feel that way, myself included." he said grimly. "You were right, back then in my solar. 'This may be the hardest choice we will have to take in our lifetime'. And indeed, it was." He paused, and then added: "However, brooding over it is pointless. What is done is done. We should just think about winning this war. And once it's all over, history and King Stannis will judge us."

Those words managed to make him feel better, although only a little. _He is right. I have to focus on what is to come. There will be time for regrets, later._

Yohn thanked Grafton, and then turned his gaze toward the horizon. Toward the Riverlands and the upcoming battles.

 _Let's just hope we will all be still alive to do it._

 _ **AN:**_ _Well, that's it. The Vale has joined the conflict. How will this turn out for everyone involved? Wait and you'll find out. Next chapter, we'll go back to the Mannis. And someone will die._

 _See you in two weeks, folks!_


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

 _"I ask you, why did the gods inflict me with brothers?"_

 _ **-Stannis Baratheon**_

 **Stannis**

From outside of the tent came distant voices of men and noises that could be linked to training and recreational activities. Inside, only silence. The only occupant of the tent lay on his bed, his blue eyes staring at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep, something that was becoming too common for his tastes.

 _Did I do the right thing?_ Stannis wondered for the umpteenth time. He had been asking himself that question ever since his ship had sailed from Dragonstone to the Stormlands, where he was now. Ever since he had chosen to trust Melisandre's words.

 _That woman and her visions..._

Her ramblings could have easily been mistaken for those of a fool, or a charlatan seeking to trick people of feeble wits. It didn't take a great ability to do that. Even Stannis could look into a fire and claim to have seen things. And some people would be fool enough to believe him. And yet, when news from the Vale had proven her vision about Petyr Baelish and Lysa Arryn to be true, Stannis had taken a moment to think. It couldn't be just a coincidence. Could it be, then, that Melisandre really was able to see the future? And if it was true, what could it possibly mean about her other visions? He didn't know about the other two, but the one about the golden stag and the grey wolf...the latter could only be Robb Stark, and the former...Stannis had to be the former. Would this turn out to be true, too, if he had done as he had meant at first? Would he have died in battle against the Lannisters, if he had joined his loyal subjects in the Riverlands?

He had spent an enormous amount of time thinking about the matter. He could easily have ignored the prophecy and decided to sail for Maidenpool first, and then Riverrun. His place was with those loyal to him, after all. But then, doubt had begun to make its way into him. What if the prophecy was true? What if, indeed, Stannis and Robb Stark were to die in battle together? The consequences would be terrible. The Lannisters and their lies would keep their hold on the Iron Throne, and sooner or later they would clash with Renly. And given Melisandre's other prophecy about his brother, about his death...

For perhaps the first time in his life, Stannis had willingly chosen a risky path. He had mustered the few troops the Narrow Sea lords could field, and then set sail for Storm's End. He had sent Massey to Runestone to negotiate with Lord Royce, and Davos to the Riverlands as his representative, after the former smuggler had managed to recruit one of the best free companies in Essos. Stannis couldn't leave his allies alone, after all. What kind of king would do that? He wasn't sure how they would take it, though. The only letter Davos had managed to send him didn't mention their reaction, so Stannis could only suppose. And hope. Hope that this endeavour wouldn't end with his defeat.

He rose from the bed, naked like the day he was born, and started dressing. His brow furrowed as he thought once again of the red woman. _Melisandre...pray your god that your visions come true, or else..._ He sighed. _Why did I let her convince me?_ He hadn't converted to the Red God, as she wished. He had no intention of doing that. It wasn't the appeal of her religion that had drawn him to her. It was something else, and he knew it well. Something for which he now felt a deep shame. He had long ago sworn to never let his instincts rule him, to never become like Robert. And yet, it had happened. He had broken his marriage vows with a strange woman who claimed to have the ability to deliver him victory. The second woman he had slept with. Thoughts of her naked body under his, of her face moaning with pleasure under the light of a torch, came back to his mind and started stirring something in his lower body. He instantly banished those thoughts. He had to focus on more practical matters. He couldn't let his carnal desires distract him.

Stannis finished dressing and left the tent, heading toward the center of the camp. And just then, he noticed Ser Richard Horpe hurriedly walking in his direction.

"Your Grace, I was looking for you." said the knight.

"Well, you have found me. What is it, Ser Richard?"

"Something of the utmost urgency, Your Grace. Lord Renly's host is approaching..."

 **XXXXXX**

 **Melisandre**

Both parties bore the same banner, a black stag on a yellow field. However, the two men leading them couldn't be more different. Renly Baratheon, with his green velvet doublet and satin cloak trimmed in vair, long black hair spilling out of a crown of golden roses with a jade stag's head. Stannis Baratheon, with a simple leather jerkin over quilted doublet and breeches of brown roughspun. He wore no crown, but a fringe of thin black hair circled his head almost like one.

 _Brothers, and yet as different as day and night,_ thought Melisandre as the two men detached from the respective parties and came to meet each other. She was near enough that she could hear what they said.

"Lord Renly." Stannis greeted his brother.

"King Renly, you mean." answered the younger Baratheon. "It certainly has been a while, brother. You look...older." He chuckled. "Old age has finally caught you, it seems."

Stannis frowned. "I did not come here to jape, Renly." His voice was as hard as steel, whereas Renly's was cheerful, almost as if he were at a wedding feast instead of the eve of a battle. _He is either a fool, or very confident._

Renly snorted. "Always so serious...you never change, Stannis. I wonder if you even know how to smile."

Stannis didn't answer. He just kept glaring at his brother. Melisandre wondered what he was thinking.

"Very well." said Renly after a while. "Now that we have exchanged pleasantries, shall we talk about what in seven hells were you thinking? Why did you lay siege to Storm's End? If you wanted to talk to me so badly, you just had to send a raven."

Stannis clenched his jaw, his face taut. "I swore I would never treat with you while you wore your traitor's crown. Would that I had kept to that vow."

"Traitor? Oh, dear brother of mine, I am no more a traitor than you. I seem to recall that Robert had two sons. By all the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, Joffrey is his rightful heir, and Tommen after him." He paused. "We are all traitors, here."

"Robert left no trueborn children. I trust you read my letter?"

"Indeed, I read it. I was camped at Horn Hill when Lord Tarly received it. I must say, you surprised me, brother. I never thought you could be so creative as to conceive such fanciful lies."

"Are you naming me a liar?"

"Can you prove any word of this fable?"

Stannis ground his teeth. _He has proof,_ Melisandre thought. _His brother's bastards. And one of them is right here, at Storm's End._

"And even if it were true, why did you keep silent?"

"I did not keep silent. I brought my suspicions to Jon Arryn."

"A dead man. How inconvenient."

"Do you think he died by happenstance? Cersei had him poisoned, for fear he would reveal her. He had been gathering certain proofs..."

"...which doubtless died with him. Again, how inconvenient." Renly said with a sigh. "I grow tired of this banter, Stannis. Why don't you simply dismount and bend your knee?"

"The Iron Throne is mine by rights. It is you who should bend the knee." answered Stannis, his voice full of badly concealed rage. "I am your elder brother, your rightful king!"

"You are more of a fool than I thought, Stannis. Do you think that paltry rabble huddled under the castle walls will be able to make you king? I'll call them five thousand and be generous..."

Melisandre looked at Renly as he talked. _You are a fool, Renly Baratheon. Your brother has a stronger ally than you may ever imagine._

"That is just a small part of my forces." said Stannis after his brother had finished his speech. "The North, the Riverlands and the Vale are with me."

"Hmm...last time I heard, the Vale was in the middle of a civil war. And unless the Starks and Tullys managed to magically bring their hosts here and make them invisible to our eyes, they are still dealing with the lions in the west." said Renly with a derisive snort. "You truly have lost your wits, brother." His hand slid inside his cloak. Melisandre saw Stannis reaching for the hilt of his sword, but didn't flinch. She knew this wasn't the moment when blood would be spilled. However, she was still curious about what Renly was going to do.

She raised an eyebrow when the younger Baratheon produced a peach. _What does he mean to do with that?_

"Would you like one, brother?" Renly asked, smiling. "From Highgarden. You've never tasted anything so sweet, I promise you." He took a bite, still looking at Stannis. _Does he have any respect for his elder brother?_

"I did not come here to eat fruit, Renly. Nor did I come to be mocked!" roared Stannis.

Renly took one last bite, then tossed the stone away. "It is you who are mocking yourself, brother. Why walk toward a certain death? Also, a battle would be confusing, since we use the same banner. Swear me your allegiance, and together we will destroy the Lannisters. I'll even give you Storm's End, as a brother's gift. As Robert once gave it to me, I give it to you." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Storm's End is not yours to give. It is mine by rights!"

Renly sighed and shook his head. "What am I to do with you, brother?"

Stannis grit his teeth. "I want to be merciful. For the sake of the mother who bore us both, I will give you this night to rethink of your folly, Renly. Strike your banners and come to me before dawn, and I will grant you Storm's End and your old seat on the council and even name you my heir until a son is born to me. Otherwise, I shall destroy you."

Renly laughed. Melisandre pitied the young man.

"Now I understand. You want to wait until the sun is high in the sky, so as to blind me by using your bald head as a mirror!" He shook his head. "I, too, want to be merciful. I give you this night to rethink, brother. We will meet again on the morrow!" With that, he wheeled his horse around and went back to his party.

Stannis snorted angrily and did the same. Melisandre approached him, choosing to stay silent as they rode on and then returned to their camp.

"Your brother is a fool, my king. He shall pay for his words." she said later, once they were alone in Stannis' tent.

Stannis looked at her. "I hope your god knows what he is doing, woman." he muttered as he sat on his bed. "Else I will be remembered as a fool who doomed himself with his own hands."

She knelt in front of him. "Renly shall be punished for his arrogance. The Lord of Light will see to that. Just trust me, my king." She reassured him as she gently stroke his left cheek. Unlike the first time she had done that, this time Stannis didn't flinch. She looked him in the eyes and smiled. He hadn't converted yet, but she hadn't lost hope. She was a patient woman. She would help Stannis conquer the throne. She would give him the advice he needed and the warmth he secretly craved. And then, no matter how much time it would take, Stannis Baratheon would finally welcome R'hllor as his one true god.

"Just trust me." Melisandre whispered, and soon after her lips met Stannis'.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Loras**

Being the son of a great lord was by no means easy, no matter what those of lower rank may be inclined to think. Even more so if you were the second or third son. Sure, you had many resources at your disposal, but on the other hand there were certain...expectations to be met. Also, if your elder brother managed to survive, marry and have sons of his own, you found yourself a mere footnote in the family book. Therefore, you had to do something with your life. Something that could give it a meaning. Some chose to take the black, while others became maesters, or septons, and someone else could even decide to cross the Narrow Sea and try their luck in the Free Cities.

Loras had no desire to join the Night's Watch. The idea of spending the rest of his life in a frozen wasteland, guarding a wall of ice and stone surrounded by thieves and rapists and murderers, was unappealing to him, to say the least. Neither he wanted to become a maester, or a septon. As his grandmother had often told him, some men were made for books and prayers, while others were made for swords and battles. And Loras was definitely made for the latter. He could have joined one of those Essosi free companies, but he didn't want to leave his homeland.

And so, he had chosen to become a great knight and jouster. That, coupled with his good looks, had earned him fame throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Everybody loved him, especially the women. Those that didn't love him, at least respected his skills.

That wasn't enough to him, though. While he enjoyed the admiration and respect he always received after a tourney, Loras wanted something more. Jousting wasn't real fighting, after all. He craved for a real battle, a real opponent. Something to truly test his mettle and show everybody else that the Knight of Flowers wasn't just a tourney knight.

That was one of the two reasons why he had accepted Renly's offer. Being the commander of his Rainbow Guard was in itself a great honor, but leading the vanguard of his army against his brother Stannis? That was the chance he had been waiting for. That way, he would prove himself against one of the most renown battle commanders of the Seven Kingdoms. Maesters would dedicate entire chapters of their books to him, bards would sing songs about his prowess, and the name of Loras Tyrell would be remembered forever alongside those of Aemon the Dragonknight and Arthur Dayne.

The other reason...well, it was completely different. Loras loved Renly. He loved him more than life itself. And he would do anything to please his love. He was even ready to die for Renly.

These were the thoughts that ran through Loras' mind as he left his tent. He took a deep breath and observed his surroundings. Thanks to the predawn gloom, everything looked grey. Grey men, grey horses, grey banners. Men went back and forth, readying themselves for the upcoming battle. Storm's End loomed in the distance. Loras smiled. It was going to be a good day, he felt it into his bones.

"Already awake, Loras?" said a familiar voice from somewhere to his left. Loras turned, and saw his brother Garlan out of his own tent, looking at him with a smile on his face.

"I expected to find you still asleep." Garlan continued.

"I was too excited to sleep, brother." answered Loras. "This is going to be a great day."

"Indeed. Though, to make it really great, we should be facing forces at least equal to ours in size." said his brother as Loras approached him. "This...I don't know. To me, it seems like swatting a fly with a catapult."

"What does it matter? We will be fighting for our king. That alone should suffice." He paused. "I want to make him proud, Garlan."

Garlan nodded, still smiling. "You really..." he made to say, but just then, he was interrupted by a scream.

"What was that?" asked Loras.

"It sounded like...a woman's scream." Garlan turned his head. "I think it came from there." He pointed his finger toward the source of the scream.

Loras' heart started beating faster. Renly's pavilion was in that direction. _What happened? Renly..._ He had to go and see. "Come with me!"

He and Garlan started running toward the royal pavilion. Other men joined them, all with confused looks on their faces. Loras paid them no heed. He had only one thing on his mind.

As soon as he reached his destination, he burst into the pavilion. A terrible sight greeted him. Robar Royce and Emmon Cuy were locked in a fierce duel with Brienne Tarth. He briefly wondered what in seven hells they were doing, when he saw something that chilled his blood. Something that would haunt his sleep for many nights to come.

He saw Renly laying on the ground, blood pouring from a slash on his throat.

"She killed him, Loras!" shouted Ser Robar.

"I didn't!" answered Brienne. The two knights were pressing her hard, but she was holding her ground. "I didn't kill him! It was...nngghhh...a shadow! A shadow, I tell you!"

His world froze for a moment. _No. No no no no no._ _He can't be dead. Not him. It must be a trick._ But as soon as he thought that, he knew he was wrong. Renly, his love, was dead. There was no mistaking it.

Loras opened his mouth, and screamed. Later, when all was done, he would remember only a great rage overwhelming him, and his sword dirty with Brienne's blood.

 _ **AN:**_ _The Florist is dead, long live the Florist._


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

 _"The ironborn are a race of pirates and thieves."_

 _ **-Denys Mallister**_

 **Victarion**

"DIE, IRONBORN SCUM!"

The northman's axe was stopped by Victarion's blade.

"It is you who will die, greenlander!" answered Victarion. "I will make sure of that!" He pushed with all his might, forcing the northman to retreat and assume a defensive stance. Then, he charged, and their weapons met again. A new series of metallic clashes was added to the cacophony of battle noises filling the air. Victarion smiled to himself. It's almost done. The northmen were losing. Their numbers were rapidly dwindling, and although they fought fiercely, they simply were no match for the ironborn. Soon, they would all die, and Moat Cailin would fall.

Victarion had heard tales of the ancient stronghold, but seeing it personally was a completely different matter. Originally built by the ancient First Men, it had guarded the North against invasions from the south for countless centuries. It was an impressive castle, though most of it lay in ruins now. Only three towers remained, with only a handful of men, mostly archers, left to guard them. Clearly, the Starks hadn't expected someone to attack the Moat. Also, they hadn't expected the attack to come from the west.

And to be honest, Victarion neither had expected he would be sent to attack the ancient fortress. Only after Balon had explained his plan, did he truly understand why. To enter the North, an army coming from the south had no choice but to use the causeway passing through the swamps of the Neck. And Moat Cailin was right on the northern end of the causeway. Just like it had done in the past, now the fortress would stop an army coming north. Only, this time it would be an army of northmen coming back home. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Victarion's men were more than the pitiful garrison the Starks had left, and would easily be able to hold the castle against a besieging army. They could also count on reinforcements from the men of the Iron Fleet, currently in the Fever River. With Aeron and Asha taking care of the lands in the north of the Moat, they didn't have to worry about a threat coming from there.

And once the northmen arrived...they would find impossible to pass the castle, and they would be slaughtered by their enemies coming from the south. And then, the new kingdom of the ironmen would truly begin.

 _It will be a glorious..._

Victarion interrupted his trail of thoughts to focus entirely on the fight. He chastised himself for that. Seemingly small distractions could easily lead to an early death. He had to keep his mind on what he was actually doing.

He deflected his opponent's new attack and managed to wound him on the neck. The northman screamed and let go of his weapon. Victarion beheaded him with one quick blow and then pushed away the body.

"FOR THE DROWNED GOD!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, and charged another northman who was running toward him, probably to avenge his fallen comrade.

From there, it was all a storm of blades and blood, of screams and curses. Men died. Victarion was wounded twice, but in both cases it was nothing too serious. And finally, the last of the defenders fell by Ralf Kenning's hand.

"Well done, my warriors." said Victarion observing the carnage. "Moat Cailin is ours." He sheathed his sword and smiled. He hadn't felt this good in a long time.

The men cheered. One of them stepped forward and addressed him. "What do we do now, my lord?"

Victarion laughed. "What do we do, boy? Simple. For now, we rest and wait."

 **XXXXXX**

 **Walton**

A long line of men was crossing the bridge, bearing banners from either the North or the Riverlands. Most of them were silent, while some were talking and japing with their companions. Lord Bolton was somewhere at the front, together with the commanders of the Frey contingent that had joined his when they had arrived at the Twins. Now, their host would be more than enough to constitute a serious threat. And once Ser Rodrik Cassel managed to liberate Deepwood Motte, the ironborn at Moat Cailin would find themselves besieged from two sides.

Walton didn't exactly look forward to that. Sieges were long and dull affairs, and Moat Cailin was basically impregnable from the south. He would much rather stay in the Westerlands, waiting for the arrival of Lord Tywin's host. However, Lord Stark's orders had been clear. They had to besiege the Moat and liberate it, coordinating their efforts with the crannogmen of the Neck and Ser Rodrik. Lord Bolton had obeyed without question, and it was Walton's duty to do likewise. Let it never be said that he wasn't loyal.

His horse snorted. On his left, he noticed Steffon Frey looking at him from the corner of his eye. He silently cursed. _Did he really have to be here, of all places?_

"What the fuck are you looking at, Frey?" asked Walton gruffly. He had never liked that man, ever since he had first met him. He had seen him fight, and he had to admit that he wasn't that bad of a warrior, but aside from that, Steffon Frey wasn't the kind of man Walton would enjoy drinking a beer with. And he was almost sure that the feeling was mutual. Sure, he hadn't openly said so, but judging from the way the other man talked and looked at him, it was quite obvious that he didn't like Walton. However, for all Walton cared, Steffon Frey could go bugger himself with a rusty spear. What other people, much less those wretched southrons, thought of him, was the least of his concerns.

"Nothing." answered Frey.

"Are you taking one last look at home before going north? You must be afraid of death." Walton taunted him. "Not that's something to blame. We are going to face the ironmen, after all."

The other man grunted. "Mind your words, northman. Unless you want to experience a swimming in the waters of the Green Fork."

"You'd be dead before you even thought of trying."

After that, silence settled between the two of them. Walton was grateful for that.

"You already fought them?" Frey suddenly asked him.

"Hmm? What did you say?"

"The ironborn. You already fought them, didn't you? Ten years ago, in the Rebellion."

Walton nodded. "Aye. I was among the troops that followed King Robert in the assault of Pyke."

"And..." He seemed to hesitate. "What are they like? The ironmen, I mean."

"Why are you asking?"

"I don't want to go into a fight unprepared."

"Hmm..." He hadn't expected that question. Wanting to know the enemy you were going to face was a good thing. That had to be the reason Frey had approached him. "Well, they are good fighters, I'll give them that. Strong and ruthless like a pack of hungry wolves. Almost unbeatable at sea, with those longships of theirs. On land, they aren't that different from any of us. Don't show them any mercy, because you won't get any from them." he said. "Satisfied?"

Steffon Frey nodded. "Aye." He didn't thank him, not that Walton expected it.

"It may be a while before we actually fight them, though. Lord Bolton will probably want to tire them with a long siege." By now he had spent enough time with his liege that he could guess what his strategy would be.

"Then I will spend that time preparing myself for the fight." said the other man.

"If you need someone to teach you how to fight, you know where to find me."

Frey looked at him angrily but didn't speak, while Walton just chuckled. The two of them went back to ignoring each other.

 _Better keep an eye on this one,_ Walton told himself.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Brynden**

The last of the summoned commanders entered Ashemark's solar. For a moment, there was silence as Brynden took a glance at them and the door was closed.

"Now that you are all here," said Robb, sitting at the place where the lord of the castle usually sat. "we can start talking."

Brynden, sitting at Robb's right, noticed how his voice seemed to have regained some of its strength. He was thankful for that. He had been afraid that the boy wouldn't recover from the death of his direwolf. Luckily, aside from a light headache and some occasional nightmares, Robb was now back to normal. If his condition had worsened...Brynden wasn't sure he would be able to keep the lords, the northern ones at least, all together. Although he couldn't fight, Robb was still an important part of their army. They all needed him, if they wanted to go on.

"Lord Stark, may I ask why we have been summoned?" asked Lord Davos Seaworth. "Is it something related to the war?"

"Not exactly, Lord Seaworth. I wanted you all here to talk about a matter that has been recently brought to my attention." He paused for a moment. "Theon Greyjoy."

Some of the lords just stared at Robb, while others muttered among themselves.

"Have you decided what to do with him, my lord?" asked Eddard Karstark, now a lord since his father had died a fortnight ago from the wounds sustained in the battle against Ser Stafford's army, after lingering between life and death for what seemed like an eternity.

"When will the execution be?" Jason Mallister suddenly asked. He seemed particularly interested in the matter. It wasn't something to be surprised at. The Mallister family had fought the ironborn for many centuries before the Conquest, and there was no love lost between them. Lord Jason had always made sure to stay as far away as possible from Theon, whose elder brother Rodrik he had slain ten years ago. And as far as Brynden could tell, none of the other lords seemed to be particularly fond of the young ironman.

 _Who could blame them?_ he thought. There isn't a single person in this room that wouldn't kill an ironborn, given the chance. Although he had to admit that young Theon wasn't that bad. He had spent some time with him, and now understood why Robb trusted him so much. If it wasn't for his whoring habits...

"There will be no execution, Lord Mallister." Robb answered him. "In fact, this is why I summoned you all. I know there have been several rumors going on, ever since we learned of the ironborn attacks in the North. Rumors about Theon, of what I would do with him. Some even talked about an execution.

"Well, I wanted you all to know that there will be no execution. Theon Greyjoy will remain a ward of House Stark."

There was a moment of silence, and then the lords started talking all at once.

"How..."

"My lord, are you..."

"This is..."

Robb let them talk for a little while, and then motioned for them to stay silent.

"What happened is a serious matter, and will be dealt accordingly. Our remaining forces in the North are gathering and soon will march on Deepwood Motte, while Lord Bolton will take care of Moat Cailin. Gods willing, they will succeed."

Stevron Frey cleared his throat. "Lord Stark, if I may..." Robb nodded, and the heir to the Twins resumed speaking. "I think that you shouldn't underestimate the threat that Theon Greyjoy poses."

"What do you mean, Ser Stevron?"

"What I mean, my lord, is that...well, this doesn't seem like a coincidence to me. The ironborn have waited until we were deep in the Westerlands territory to attack. Could it be that they...that they had a spy amongst our forces, informing them of our moves?"

Those words elicited some mutterings from the other lords.

"Are you accusing Theon Greyjoy, Ser Stevron?" Robb asked, furrowing his brows.

"I am merely speculating, my lord."

"Well, I can assure you that these speculations are unfounded. Theon hasn't written to his kin in a while, well before we came south." Robb calmly said. "I trust him like a brother. He would never betray us."

"Lord Stark..." said Daryn Hornwood. "I think that Ser Stevron has a point. We can't underestimate Theon Greyjoy. Even if he hasn't informed the other ironborn, he may well still feel resentment for what happened ten years ago. His father's defeat, the death of his older brothers..."

"Theon holds no love for his brothers." Robb interrupted him. "He often spoke to me of them. And suffice to say, he wouldn't bother with avenging them."

"Lord Stark, I think you are letting your affection for the boy shadow your judgment." Tytos Blackwood spoke. "You must be cautious. Everything he told you could be a lie aptly forged to earn your trust, while he waits for the right moment to stab you in the back."

"Lord Blackwood is right!" bellowed Smalljon Umber. "You can't trust the boy, my lord. If you don't want to execute him, at least lock him in a cell until the war is over!"

"Theon can't be held accountable for the actions of his kin." Robb answered. "And if he really wanted to kill me, he would have done it while I was recovering.

"As I already said, I trust him like a brother. However, I will take your concerns into account. Ser Brynden will keep an eye on Theon. And if he does something to betray my trust, I will personally execute him." Brynden looked at Robb as he said that. _I hope you know what you are doing, boy._

That seemed to satisfy the lords, although some of them seemed to feel otherwise. Jason Mallister, in particular, looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead chose to keep his silence. Brynden decided to keep a particularly close watch on the lord of Seagard, lest he tried to do something unsavory.

"With that being said, we should now focus our attention on the other reason for your presence here. The Lannister army from Harrenhal is approaching, and we need a strategy to at least..."

And so a discussion began that lasted for hours, until the sun started to go down. The commanders finally left the solar, and Brynden was left alone with Robb.

"I feel...tired..." sighed Robb.

"You shouldn't strain yourself too much, boy." Brynden said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Go to your bedchamber and sleep. You can skip the evening's training for today." Skipping one training session wouldn't hurt, he supposed. Robb's rest was more important. They would resume their usual schedule on the morrow.

Robb nodded, and rose from his seat.

"One last thing, Robb..."

The boy turned towards him, and Brynden's tone became more serious.

"There was something else I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't do it in front of the other lords."

"What is it, Uncle?"

"It's about your battle plans. They were good, but...well, you will have to stay behind, Robb. You can't fight."

"What? Uncle, I know that..."

"Let me finish." Brynden interrupted him. "When you still had Grey Wind, you could actually do something. But now? You can barely hold a sword, and although you are making progress, you aren't ready enough for a real fight. That will take years to happen. If you rode to battle right now, you would die."

"I almost died against the Kingslayer, back when I was still whole."

"That was different. When you were still whole, you had a fighting chance. Now you lack an eye, a good sword arm, and most importantly, your direwolf. You would die as soon as you dismounted from your horse.

"I warn you, Robb. If I see you on the battlefield, I will send you back to Riverrun!"

Robb looked at him. "I..."

"You will do as I said. Did I make myself clear?"

The boy hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. "As you wish, Uncle."

Brynden nodded, satisfied. "Good. You can go, now."

Robb left the solar, and Brynden sighed. He hadn't enjoyed that, but it had been necessary. Robb couldn't risk dying in such a way. Doing it when you could actually fight was one thing, but this...this was bravery bordering on stubbornness and stupidity. A death with no real meaning. No, Robb wouldn't join the rest of the army on the battlefield, he would make sure of that!

 _There is no other way,_ he thought as he left the room.

 _ **AN:**_ _This chapter came out a little different than what I had originally planned. Brynden's POV was originally a Rodrik Cassel's POV (which was then replaced since I didn't want to introduce too many POV characters. By the way, do you remember Melisandre's POV in chapter 5? A vision was mentioned about ten white wolves on a tower. And there's a northern house with ten white wolves on its banner…), and there was some stuff in Walton's scene that I decided to save for his next POV._

 _With that being said, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. See you next time, folks!_


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

 _"All these kings would do a deal better if they put down their swords and listened to their mothers."_

 _ **-Olenna Redwyne**_

 **Stannis**

Selwyn Tarth was an old man. That was the first thing Stannis thought as he watched him enter his tent, after Devan Seaworth had announced him. Not as old as his Estermont grandsire, but old enough to be of an age with his father, were he still alive. Most of the Evenstar's hair was grey, but here and there a few wisps of blond could still be found. His face showed only a few wrinkles, and his blue eyes spoke of a man haunted by a deep grief. It was to be expected, given his recent loss.

"Your Grace, thanks for receiving me." the Lord of Tarth said, bowing his head.

"Lord Tarth." Stannis said with stiff courtesy. "Please, take a seat." He motioned for one of the chairs near his table. Lord Tarth was the last of a long line of stormlords who had come to swear fealty to Stannis. All traitors, in his eyes. But he needed them and their fighting strength, if he wanted to succeed. And so, he had to be generous and forgive them.

 _Forgive, but not forget_ , he thought as the other man sat and cleared his throat. Tarth and the other lords had turned their backs on their rightful king for no better reason than dreams of power and glory, and he had marked them for what they were. In time, they would get what they deserved.

"You can leave, Devan. Wait outside with the guards." he said to his squire.

"Yes, Your Grace." The young Seaworth bowed and left the tent.

After Devan left, Stannis looked at his guest. "Now, Lord Tarth, may I ask why you requested a personal meeting?" The other lords had all sworn fealty in front of their peers. Instead, the Evenstar had personally requested to talk to Stannis in the privacy of his pavilion.

"Your Grace...it's about my...my daughter."

His daughter. Stannis had never met Brienne Tarth, though he had oft heard of her. Mockingly called Brienne the Beauty, she was her father's only surviving child and heir, and had joined Renly as one of his Rainbow Guard knights.

And later, she had become his murderer. _Renly shall be punished for his arrogance. The Lord of Light will see to that_ , Melisandre had told him. How her red god had done that, whether by using Brienne Tarth as a sort of living conduit through which to kill Renly, or by simply giving Melisandre another vision of things to come, Stannis didn't know. What he did know, was that he was now left with no living brothers.

Stannis hadn't exactly welcomed the news of Renly's death. Sure, a traitor had been punished for his crime. And a great part of Renly's host, mostly stormlords but with a few reachmen, had joined him, finally giving him the strength he needed. However...seven hells, Renly was his brother! And despite his betrayal, Stannis still loved him. His death had hurt him more than he would admit to anyone else. Also, to die in such a way...if he had died in battle, or even by an executioner's blade, it would have been different. But this...slain by someone who Renly trusted and who had sworn to protect him...it was undignified, to say the least. If Brienne Tarth had somehow survived, Stannis was sure he would have her executed. However, the Knight of Flowers had killed her as soon as he had arrived on the scene of the murder. Perhaps that was the reason behind Lord Tarth's request.

"Your...daughter, Lord Tarth?" Stannis asked.

The other man nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. My...my Brienne." He paused. "I assume you heard about...the circumstances of her death."

"I did, Lord Tarth. Just like the rest of the realm, by now. Does this have something to do with your presence here?"

"Indeed. Your Grace, I come here looking for justice. My daughter is innocent!"

Stannis raised an eyebrow. "Innocent?"

"Exactly. She is...she was a good girl. She would never kill someone like that, much less a king she had sworn to serve!"

"My brother was an usurper, Lord Tarth. He was no true king."

"King or no king, she would never commit such a heinous act. Someone else must have done it!"

"Who, then? By all accounts, your daughter was alone with my brother in his tent."

"There must have been someone else! Perhaps...a Lannister spy that managed to stay undetected. The...Your Grace, as I said, I came here because I am looking for justice. And you are renown as a just and honest man. My daughter was unjustly slain for a murder she didn't commit. What I want, what I ask of you, is justice!"

Stannis stared at Lord Tarth for a moment. "Lord Tarth...let me understand. You want me to give you justice...for my brother's murderer?"

"She didn't kill your brother!"

"Do you at least have any proof of your claims?"

"No, I...I don't." Lord Tarth said. "Your Grace, I knew my daughter. They say she was in love with Renly. That I can believe, for she always spoke of him with nothing but adoration. They also say that she killed him because she couldn't handle his refusal. That...that I can't believe! I don't want to believe it! My Brienne was many things, but not a murderer. And she didn't deserve to die!

"Your Grace, I am ready to bend the knee and give you the full support of House Tarth...if you will give me justice for my daughter's murder. Loras Tyrell must be made to pay for what he did!"

Stannis furrowed his brow. "Lord Tarth, I can understand your grief. And I promise you that Loras Tyrell will indeed face justice. But not for your daughter's murder.

"Let me make things clear: your daughter killed a man she had sworn to protect. Your denial of this fact will not change that. And she paid for that crime with her own life. Now, instead of bargaining like a common merchant, you should bend the knee and swear me the fealty you owe me as your rightful king. If you do that, I promise to be merciful and let you keep all of your lands and titles."

Lord Tarth looked him in the eyes. "Please...Your Grace, I beg you...not as a lord of the realm, but as a father to another father." He seemed to be on the verge of tears. "If your daughter was accused of a murder she didn't commit, wouldn't you do anything in your power to help her?"

Stannis grit his teeth. _What does Shireen have to do with all this?_ "If my daughter was accused of a murder she didn't commit, I would have the accuser beheaded. But this is no such case.

"I grow tired of this banter, Lord Tarth. I will not give justice to the woman who murdered my kin. And that is my final word on the matter."

Selwyn Tarth looked at him for a moment, and then suddenly rose to his feet. "Then I have nothing else to say to you!" he said angrily, and then stormed out of the tent.

A few seconds later, Devan hurriedly entered the pavilion. "Your Grace, is everything all right?"

Stannis nodded to his young squire. "Yes, Devan."

"Lord Tarth is leaving. Do you want to..."

"No. Let him go." For now. Lord Tarth will get his due once the war is over.

Devan seemed to want to ask him why, but in the end just nodded. "As you wish. Do you need help with anything, Your Grace?"

"No, Devan. Just...just leave. I will call you if I need anything."

His squire left, and Stannis remained alone with his thoughts.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Catelyn**

Once again, the nightmares came to haunt her sleep.

It wasn't such an uncommon occurrence. She had had nightmares ever since she could remember. However, there were some parts of her life when these nightmares would become more frequent, a reflection of her fears and anxieties. And sometimes (but not that often, thank the gods), these feelings would turn into reality.

When her husband had left Riverrun, soon after their wedding, she would dream of his death in battle. This happened almost every night until she saw him again, and every time it was a gruesome thing to behold. The same dreams came back years later, when he sailed for Pyke. She had wondered at first how she could be this worried about a man who was little more than a stranger, when she had barely shed a tear for his elder brother, her former betrothed. Only much later into their marriage she would understand why.

When Ned had brought home his bastard, she would dream of the babe as a grown man, with an army at his back and a sword in his hand, ready to usurp her son's birthright. This one was later followed by another, one especially painful, where Ned was hugging a woman with dark hair and violet eyes. Sure, later she had forgiven her husband, but she had never forgotten. Her hate for Jon Snow had started back then.

All these fears had never realized. However, when Ned left Winterfell for King's Landing, the old dreams came back. And when the raven arrived bearing that dreaded news...she had cursed and cried and asked the gods why. They hadn't answered.

Her latest dreams were all about her son Robb. In one, he was surrounded by enemy soldiers who killed him with their spears. In another one, he was beheaded in front of the Great Sept of Baelor, just like his father. And in yet another dream, the one she hated the most, he was writhing in agony in his bed, while she herself stood nearby, unable to move and help him.

This one, however, was new. It didn't involve Ned or Robb, or a familiar setting.

This dream was about her. She was in a forest, one that she had never seen before. Judging from the snow covering the skeletal trees, it had to be somewhere in the far north. There was an eerie silence. She could hear no sounds. No chirping of birds, no rustling of leaves, not even the wind blowing.

 _What kind of place is this?_

Suddenly, she heard a strange noise from somewhere behind her back. She turned, and saw something so strange, so out of place, that she was left speechless.

A giant wall of water, slowly moving toward her. How could it be? Where did all that water come from? And when she tried to run away, she found herself unable to move. She struggled against the invisible bonds keeping her still, and then cried as the massive wave hit her.

"AAAAHHHH!" Catelyn screamed as she opened her eyes, just in time to realize that it had been just a dream. She wasn't even in a forest. She was in her bedchamber, in the castle where she was born. She was safe.

Seven help me, what a strange dream...

She sat on her bed and ran a hand through her hair. She took a few deep breaths and closed her eyes. It was just a dream, she told herself. Just a meaningless, stupid dream. She couldn't let it scare her, as it had often happened when she was younger. She had to be strong. For herself, her children, and her house.

A melancholic sigh escaped her as she thought of her offspring. Her Robb, who had had to grow up so fast in such a short time. Bran and Rickon, safe inside the walls of Winterfell. Sansa and Arya, still in enemy hands. How she wished she could be with them, like the old times. Alas, she couldn't. Events beyond her reach had shattered her family. She could only pray that no more of them would die.

Catelyn rose from her bed. She had a busy day ahead of herself. As Acting Lady of Riverrun, her schedule was always full. She barely had time to breathe, or to pray. Speaking of which, maybe she could manage to spend a few minutes in the sept, before taking care of more mundane tasks. She had to hurry, though. She started dressing all by herself, without wasting time to call the maidservants.

She finished a few minutes later, and opened the door. And just then, Maester Vyman appeared. He had one hand seemingly ready to knock, while the other one was holding a small rolled up parchment.

"Lady Catelyn...good morning." said the old man.

"Good morning, maester." _What, now?_ If he had come ready to wake her up, something important must have happened. If so, she could say farewell to her praying session. "Did something happen?"

"Yes, my lady. A raven just arrived. From Winterfell."

Winterfell? _Gods, what now?_ "What is it, Maester Vyman? Is it the ironborn? Did they attack the castle?" If those monsters had managed to arrive to Winterfell...

Maester Vyman shook his head. "No, my lady. The ironborn have nothing to do with this. However..." He seemed to hesitate. "Well, it still isn't good news." He offered her the parchment.

She took it and started reading, her heart filling with worry. It was from Maester Luwin.

 _My lady, it grieves me to inform you that..._

Her eyes widened as she read the rest. "GODS, NO!" she screamed. Her hands trembled, and soon enough her legs gave way. She started losing consciousness as Maester Vyman rushed to help her.

 _...searches throughout the entire castle have proven fruitless. As I am writing, another search party is being prepared by the few men Ser Rodrik could spare us. They personally assured me, my lady, that they will do everything they can to find Bran and Lord Reed's children..._

 **XXXXXX**

 **Olenna**

"I have to admit, Lady Tyrell," said Lord Philip Plumm, "that I didn't expect to find you here, in your son's solar."

Olenna, sitting in front of him, raised an eyebrow. "I hope it isn't an unpleasant surprise, then, my lord."

"I just expected to have to talk with your son, or your grandson." answered the westerlord. "I didn't mean to offend you, my lady."

"You didn't, my lord. And as for my presence here, it's because my son is away and my grandson Willas is currently indisposed." That wasn't completely true. While Mace was indeed away, Willas was perfectly fine. However, Olenna had insisted for being the one to talk with Lord Plumm. Her negotiating skills were far better than Willas', and having already met the westerlord years ago, she could use that familiarity as an advantage.

"I understand. I wish him a fast recovery, then."

"Thank you, Lord Plumm." Once again, Olenna thought about how much words could be both empty and useful. She perfectly knew that Lord Plumm couldn't care less about her grandson's supposed well-being, but at the same time faking concern and politeness could be an useful weapon in everyday's life. That was something she had made sure to teach to all of her children and grandchildren.

"Now, shall we talk about the reason for your voyage here to Highgarden?" She could very well guess why Lord Plumm was there. It was too obvious.

"Of course." He cleared his throat. "Lord Kevan sent me to negotiate an alliance between the Crown and House Tyrell."

 _Just like I guessed_. "An alliance? Well, that's a good thing, though a little unexpected. Given our position just a few moons ago..."

"Perfectly understandable. Renly Baratheon was bethrothed and then married to your granddaughter Margaery, and your grandson Loras squired for him." he said. "However, that is the past. Lord Kevan and King Joffrey are willing to forget it and forgive House Tyrell, in exchange for your help in the war against the traitors that would rob our rightful king of his birthright."

 _Willing to forgive_ , she thought. _In desperate need of a strong ally, you mean._ House Lannister was teetering on the brink of a disaster. Surrounded by enemies on all sides, and basically with no friends. The Tyrells weren't in a much better position than them, though. With Renly dead before even managing to get Margaery with child, who else could they fight for? Stannis would hardly accept their fealty, and staying neutral wasn't a good option. No, their only choice was siding with the Lannisters. And of course, taking advantage of the alliance as much as possible.

"You are talking about Stannis and his allies, I presume. The North, the Riverlands and the Vale."

"Exactly. Stannis and those who sided with him are nothing more than criminals. Their treason must be punished accordingly. Stannis, especially. Those horrible lies he spread about Queen Cersei and her brother can't be forgiven."

Olenna nodded. She had read Stannis' letter. "You know, it still baffles me that he would resort to such means. He was well known for his honesty, once."

"His hatred for his own brothers must have overwhelmed him. It wouldn't surprise me if he had paid the Tarth woman to kill Renly, then blaming everything on an unrequited love. From a man like this, we should expect anything."

She nodded again. "I agree with you, my lord. Stannis must be dealt with as soon as possible." Although Olenna didn't much care for Stannis' absurd claims, she recognized him as a threat to her family's interests. They had to stop him.

"Good. Shall we discuss the terms of the alliance, then, my lady?"

"Of course." she answered. And so, the negotiations began.

 _ **AN:**_ _I'm not completely satisfied with Stannis' POV. 'Why did you use him as a POV character, then?' you may be wondering. Because I wanted to test my writing with a difficult character, hoping to improve. God knows how difficult it is to write Stannis. Catelyn and Olenna were much easier to write. However, I hope you liked the chapter. If you didn't, feel free to send a Faceless Man to my house._

 _Until next time, folks!_


	16. Chapter 15

_**AN:**_ _Here's the chapter, folks! Sorry for the delay._

 **Chapter 15**

 _"If ever a man deserved to die screaming, it was Gregor Clegane."_

 _ **-Doran Martell**_

 **Yohn**

It had taken twenty good men to kill the Mountain That Rides. Twenty. Yohn still couldn't believe it.

 _Thank the gods that monster is dead_ , he thought as he left the maester's tent. He had sustained some minor wounds that had just been tended, and still felt a headache from a blow to his right temple, courtesy of one of Clegane's men, but was otherwise fine. He was grateful for that. Others hadn't been so lucky, that day. Of the twenty men that had personally faced the Mountain, only nine were still alive to tell the tale. No doubts they would brag about it for many years to come.

Yohn had always heard a lot of grim stories about Gregor Clegane. At first he had thought nothing of most of them, merely considering those stories an exaggeration of the truth. Then he had seen him fight, in the tourney of the Hand at King's Landing, a lifetime ago.

That day, he realized the truth. Those stories weren't an exaggeration. Gregor Clegane truly was a monster in human form. Bigger and stronger than a normal man, he was also of a brutality that perhaps could only be matched by that of the ironborn or the Dothraki. And that had been a simple tourney! He had shuddered at the thought of what the Mountain could do in a real battle, and had hoped to never meet him in one.

How vain his hope had been...

As soon as the Vale troops had entered the Riverlands, they had had a first meeting with Clegane's men. Their supply wagons had been assaulted, and before they could react, the attackers had disappeared in the countryside. The same thing had happened the following days, and each time they had failed to catch the attackers, despite the increasing security measures. At first they hadn't been sure whether it was normal bandits roaming the eastern Riverlands, or Lannister men trying to damage them.

They had uncovered the truth only later, once they had linked up with Ser Helman Tallhart's forces coming from the Green Fork. The northman had informed them of what he had learned from his own outriders. Gregor Clegane and his men had been roaming the eastern Riverlands' countryside ever since Tywin Lannister left Harrenhal. The reason was clear: with their presence, they would slow down any enemy advance westward. And they had done a godsdamned fine job of that! Even with their forces combined, it had taken a while to hunt the Mountain down. However, in the end he had been found. The battle...no, the skirmish that followed had been short but brutal, with many dead and wounded. Clegane had been the last one to die. Yohn would never forget the sight of that monster swinging his sword around, all the while bleeding from multiple wounds that would have killed a normal man. He didn't know who had given him the final blow, but he would make sure that each of the nine survivor got a proper reward.

He stopped and took a couple of deep breaths. The air stank of blood, sweat and dung, but it was good. It meant he was alive, and he had never been so grateful for that.

Just then one of his men, a captain whose name he didn't remember, approached him. "My lord," he said respectfully. "the septon sent me to ask you what to do with the enemy corpses."

"The corpses?"

"Yes, my lord. Shall we dig a grave, or would you rather we burned them?"

Yohn thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, burn them. They shall suffer the same fate as the very lands they defiled."

The captain nodded, then left. Yohn headed toward Ser Helman's tent. He had promised to meet him as soon as he was done with the maester. They had something of the utmost urgency to discuss.

For even though they had gotten rid of the Mountain, they still had Harrenhal to take care of.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Victarion**

Standing on the battlements of the Gatehouse Tower, he searched the sky for the umpteenth time. _Still nothing. It should have arrived, by now._ There wasn't much distance between Moat Cailin and the Fever River. He turned to the guard. "Call me as soon as you see a raven coming." If the bird didn't arrive by the next morning, Victarion would have to send another one.

"Yes, my lord." answered the guard, a green boy of seven and ten, just assigned to guard duty after his predecessor had died of a fever. Something Victarion had to thank those goddamned bog devils for.

He silently cursed and left the battlements, taking care to not stay in plain sight for too long. One could never be too careful, when dealing with the bog devils, something that Victarion had learned quite well.

The inhabitants of the Neck had made their presence known little more than a week after their conquest of the Moat. Victarion had known an attack would arrive sooner or later, and had prepared his forces accordingly. However, what had actually come, was something none of them had been ready for.

A patrol he had sent to explore the surrounding area had come back with half the men wounded and one dead. The leader had a shocked look on his face, and kept on talking about whispers and strange noises coming from behind the trees. He then stated that they had only briefly seen one of their attackers, a small shape wearing grey rags, who had soon disappeared in the swamps. Soon after, an arrow nearly hit one of them. Then came another arrow. And another. And another, until they were forced to cover themselves with their shields. And even then they hadn't been completely safe. In the end, they had been forced to retreat.

Victarion had examined the arrows his men had managed to bring back. The heads were covered with a strange substance, black as the night sky and stinking like the contents of a privy. Back then he hadn't immediately understood what it was, only realizing it after the wounded men from the patrol started falling sick. Some of them died soon, while others lay in their beds for days on end, screaming with pain and burning with fever.

The arrowheads had been poisoned.

That had put a stop to any patrolling of the area. It simply was too dangerous. Dying in battle, against an enemy whose face you could see and whose flesh you could pierce with your blade, was one thing. It was a good and honest way to die. But trembling with fear while someone struck at you from the shadows with poison...that was undignified, to say the least. It was no true man's way. It was the way of the cowards, of the devils that lurked in the shadows.

He had personally slit the throats of each of the wounded, to put them out of their misery. At least, that way they could stand proudly in the halls of the Drowned God, having somehow paid the iron price. By the blade they had lived, and by the blade they had died.

After that, he had started constantly wearing mail and leather. It didn't take a maester to understand that he had to be careful. His men, too, when walking near a window or looking from the battlements.

Despite that, the crannogmen somehow kept on plaguing them. Some of his men who had neither left the towers nor been hit by the arrows were dying from burning fevers, and there was the occasional lucky arrow that managed to hit a man passing by a window. The ironborn of Moat Cailin were fighting an unconventional battle.

But they would resist, no matter what. No bog devil could ever hope to defeat the ironborn, as much as they tried. As soon as reinforcements arrived, those cowards would find out how true men fought. The ironborn would hunt them down and slay them and burn whatever mud huts they hid in. Victarion would see to that.

This he promised himself, as he walked the steps that would lead him to the lower parts of the tower.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Melisandre**

She watched as Stannis finished adjusting his clothes. "You look concerned, my king." _Even more than usual_ , she thought. "Are you worried about today?" she said, laying naked on a bed still warm from their coupling.

He stopped and looked at her. "Should I not be?"

"The Lord of Light will grant you victory, as I..."

"It's Ser Cortnay Penrose I am worried about, not your god." he said abruptly. "He is a stubborn man. I gave him a fortnight to consider my offer, and this is the last day."

Melisandre had never met Ser Cortnay, but she had heard about him from Stannis and other men in his camp. Known as a loyal and honest man, he had been the castellan of Storm's End for many years. And everyone agreed on him being, as Stannis had just pointed out, as stubborn as a mule.

"Maybe he is still hoping for help to arrive." she said. Penrose had sent many a raven asking for help, and Stannis' archers had managed to intercept a few. He had gone so far as to offer to bend the knee to whoever would send him aid. He is desperate.

"Well, so far no help has come. Nor will it." said Stannis. "Today we shall know his answer."

"Do you think he will accept?"

Stannis grunted. "I hope it will be so. I have already wasted too much time with this siege. If Penrose accepts, we will finally be able to march on the capital." He sighed and grit his teeth. "If he doesn't..."

"If he doesn't, R'hllor will punish him for his defiance. Just like he did with Renly."

Stannis stiffened and gave her a look that made her immediately regret her words. He didn't like to be reminded of his brother's death. She knew that Stannis still loved Renly and regretted that he had had to die, despite his betrayal. He hadn't openly told her so, for even though he oft shared his bed with her, Stannis hadn't fully shared his heart. Davos Seaworth was the only one who could claim to know Stannis' most intimate thoughts, and right now he was in the Westerlands.

Melisandre had guessed how Stannis really felt from the way he talked when Renly was mentioned, and also from the...dreams he had been having. Dreams where he saw Renly's death as if he had personally witnessed it. Of course, she knew otherwise. Those weren't real dreams. And of course, she hadn't told Stannis the truth. He couldn't know how that particular magic worked. If he somehow learned it, everything would be lost. Better he thought she had foreseen his brother's murder by Brienne Tarth's hand. She didn't like lying to him, but it was necessary.

She made to speak, but Stannis stopped her. "Pray your Lord of Light that Ser Cortnay sees reason." he said, before leaving the tent. She stood still for a moment, then rolled out the bed and started dressing. Then she joined Stannis, standing silently by his side as he gave orders to assemble a party to meet Ser Cortnay. Nobody complained about her presence. Those few lords who had converted to R'hllor were happy to have their priestess among them, while the rest of them had gotten used to her and thought she was just the king's mistress.

And later, as the morning sun shone high in the sky, they met Ser Cortnay Penrose under the walls of Storm's End.

Melisandre took a look at him. He was bald, with a red spade-shaped beard and a hard face. He wore no armor, and was accompanied only by a standard-bearer. Being this a parley, he didn't need much protection.

Stannis halted a few feet from them. "Ser." he said.

"My lord." was the knight's answer.

"It is customary to grant a king the style Your Grace." announced Lord Florent, Queen Selyse's uncle. He had been the first of Renly's bannermen to declare for Stannis, and was the foremost among those who had taken up the Lord of Light, though Melisandre couldn't tell whether it was out of real faith or political calculation.

Ser Cortnay ignored him, instead addressing Stannis. "I guess you are here to talk to me, my lord."

"You know full well why I am here." said Stannis. "You have had a fortnight to consider my offer, and I am out of patience. One last time, ser, I command you to open your gates and surrender the castle."

"And the terms?"

"Remain as before. You will be pardoned, and the men of your garrison will be free to enter my service or to return unmolested to their homes. Also, my brother's bastard must be surrendered to me."

"It is a good offer, my lord, but I can't give you Edric. The boy is under my guardianship."

"Do you think I mean him harm? He is of my blood."

"Just like your brother, to whom I swore an oath. An oath that I mean to keep, unlike some of the men in your company." he said, his voice thick with contempt.

"Are you naming us turncloaks, Ser Cortnay?" asked Lord Bryce Caron, still wearing his rainbow-striped cloak. "There are no such men, here. Our fealty belongs to Storm's End, and Stannis Baratheon is it rightful lord...and our true king. He is the last of House Baratheon, Robert's heir and Renly's."

"If that is so, why is the Knight of Flowers not among you? And where is Mathis Rowan? Randyll Tarly? Lady Oakheart? Why are they not here in your company, they who loved Renly best?"

"They ran." said Lord Caron. "They had a chance to bend the knee to their rightful king, and they forsake it. They are the true turncloaks."

"And you think of yourself better than them, Lord Caron? You swore to give your life for your king. Yet, you are here, and he is dead. If I had a cloak such as yours, I would be ashamed to wear it."

"Enough!" Stannis said. "Ser Cortnay, this has gone on for too long. The siege must end. Surrender, and I will be merciful. Keep on defying me, and you will starve to death behind those walls."

"As I already said, I swore an oath."

"Then, I will allow you to take the black, so that you may save your honor." He furrowed his brow, and Melisandre got the impression she could hear his teeth gritting. _He is losing his patience_.

"And I will make Edric Storm a royal ward. I will even swear an oath here, in front of all these witnesses, if that will serve to convince you."

Melisandre flinched at those words. _What is he doing?_ She needed Edric's blood! If Stannis made him a royal ward, she wouldn't be able to sacrifice him.

"And why should I trust you?" asked Ser Cortnay.

"You know me for a man of honor. I always keep my promises." he said. Then, after a moment, he added: "Renly must have talked about me, at least once."

Penrose nodded. "That he did."

"Then you know that I mean what I say."

There was a moment of silence between the two of them, and Melisandre tried to calm herself. _Even if he accepts, not all is lost. King Robert had other bastards._

"All right," Penrose spoke suddenly. "I will surrender and take the black. But first you must swear to protect Edric."

Stannis nodded. "All of you," he said to the lords of his party. "listen carefully and remember what was spoken here today, so that it may be written down, later." He put a hand to his heart and spoke. "I, Stannis of House Baratheon, rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms, thereby swear that no harm shall come to Edric Storm as long as I live, and that from this day onward he shall live among his trueborn kin as a ward of the Crown. This I swear, on this day, in front of these witnesses, and in the sight of the gods old and new."

Melisandre watched as Ser Cortnay nodded, seemingly satisfied. She noticed a hint of something in his eyes that looked like...shame? _It mustn't be easy for him._

"Very well...Your Grace." he finally said. "Storm's End is yours."


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

 _"We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy."_

 _ **-Maester Aemon**_

 **The Smalljon**

As the sound of her breath filled the air, Jon looked at her naked back and smiled. _So beautiful_. One particularly loud snore startled him. _How does she do it?_ He had been flabbergasted after finding out that she snored worse than any men he knew. However, he and Dacey Mormont had been sharing a bed for quite some time, and by now he was almost used to it.

There was another monstrous snore. _Almost._

Dacey Mormont was a strange woman. Although her behaviour was in some ways similar to a man's, she could be, at the same time, very feminine. There was something in her eyes, and in the way she smiled and moved, that made Jon's heart beat faster and his manhood stiffen. That she could hold her own in a fight and could drink almost as much as him didn't deter Jon, far from it. In fact, he just thought of it as another part of a whole. Just something else to like about her. For Jon did like Dacey Mormont, he had no doubt about that. In fact, sometimes he suspected he was in love with her.

It had all begun because of the Whispering Wood. After that fateful battle, Jon had spent entire days in a daze, devastated by the events. Grief over his beloved father's death, rage toward the Lannisters and the Kingslayer, shock at the thought of now being the head of House Umber. It hadn't been easy. His companions had tried to comfort him as best as they could, mostly by drinking until their heads started to ache and they couldn't stand on their feet.

Dacey had come to him on an evening when he had decided to stay by himself in his tent. She was worried about him, she had said, and wanted to help. Jon had begrudgingly let her in, not wanting to be rude. They had shared a flagon of strong ale, then another one, all the while talking about Jon's father and his plans for revenge. What had exactly happened later, Jon couldn't clearly tell, for his memory was filled with alcoholic mist. He recalled Dacey hugging him, their lips meeting almost casually, and then, their naked bodies on the floor.

That had been their first time together. After the initial embarrassment, they had decided to meet again, just to talk. However, things didn't go as they had planned, and the two of them ended up sleeping together again. It soon became an habit: once in a while she would come to his quarters, or he to hers, after the sunset, and then leave just before dawn. Jon liked that new development, and not just because of the sex, wonderful though it was. Dacey Mormont was also a sweet and intelligent woman, a joy to talk to, and had been a tremendous help in recovering from the grief that had plagued him. He would be forever grateful for that. And he would make sure to spare her any troubles that could come out of their relationship.

Although she hadn't been a maiden that first night many months ago, she could easily get with child. Moon tea wasn't easy to find in a war zone. Jon didn't want to father a bastard, and most importantly he didn't want to get Dacey into troubles. Once the war was over, he would do the honorable thing and marry her. He was sure that Dacey wouldn't say no. Also, he would have to be careful to not mention...certain details, when asking Lady Maege for her daughter's hand. He wasn't sure how she would take the news that he had been bedding her daughter. The thought of facing an enraged She-Bear scared him. He had seen her fight, and didn't wish to find himself on the receiving end of her spiked mace.

Suddenly, Dacey yawned. Her body moved, rolling on the other side. She groaned, and then slowly opened her eyes.

"Good morning." Jon said. "Did you sleep well?"

Dacey smiled. "Yes, thanks to you." She gently stroke his beard. "Hmm...is it really morning?"

Jon nodded. "Earlier I looked outside, and the sun was rising." He kissed her. "You should leave before more people start waking up."

She chuckled. "Are you afraid they will see me and start talking?"

Jon grunted. "I don't want them to spread rumors. If your lady mother should hear..."

Dacey laughed. "So, it's Mother you are worried about?"

"I care too much about my own life to risk her wrath."

"Don't worry, Mother would never kill you over something like this."

"Still, I don't want other people to know about us."

Dacey snorted. "We will worry about that later. For now..." She forcibly pushed Jon on his back and sat on top of him. Using her weight to keep him pinned down, she reached for his cock with her right hand. Then she lowered her head until she was mere inches from his face, her perky breasts grazing his hairy chest.

"...just fuck me." she whispered, looking right into his eyes.

Jon couldn't help but comply.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Sandor**

He closed the door and crossed his arms over his chest. "Now, will you tell me what the fuck has been haunting you?"

Sitting on her bed, Sansa Stark looked at him in confusion. "W-what do you mean?"

"Usually you talk so much as to make me wish I was deaf. And yet, today you didn't. Not in the godswood, not on our way here, not now." He frowned. "Something must have happened. Tell me what is it."

He had first noticed something strange in the girl early that morning, when they had left the throne room after a court session she had had to attend, as a "guest of the Crown". At first he had said nothing, merely thinking it sadness for still being in Lannister hands and not having fresh news about her brother. However, when she hadn't started her usual blabbering, he had understood there had to be something more. He cursed himself for that curiosity. Usually he wouldn't care for something so...so stupid. But somehow, the time spent with the Stark girl had softened him. He now had a desire to find out what was troubling her that was so unusual, and he wondered where the fuck it had come from.

"It's nothing."

Sandor cursed. "Spare that crap for those cunts at court. Tell me the truth."

She hesitated, then looked at him. After a few moments of silence, she finally spoke. "It's...Lancel."

"Hmm..." Lancel. _Lancel fucking Lannister_. Ser Kevan's eldest son, he had been one of King Robert's squires. Young and arrogant, he was the kind of person convinced that people should kiss the very ground he walked on. Overall, not as annoying as Joffrey, but still a prick.

He was also, now that he thought of it, Sansa Stark's betrothed. That had to be the reason behind the girl's silent behaviour.

"What of him?"

"I...if the Lannisters win, I...I will have to marry him."

Sandor snorted. "And you realized it just now? Girl, the betrothal was announced moons ago!"

She nodded. "I know, but...this morning, he was at court. I heard him talking about how he would...how he would rule Winterfell once he came there. How he...would teach the northmen to respect him, so he said. And I thought...what if Stannis and my brother lost the war? What if I...what if I actually had to marry Lancel?"

"So, that was why you were so grim, earlier?"

The Stark girl didn't answer, instead closing her eyes and sobbing.

Sandor cursed and moved closer to the girl. "Don't. Crying over this shit won't help you."

However, she started crying. Sandor frowned. He hated when women cried.

"Stop!" he said as he stood in front of her. She opened her eyes and looked at him, still sobbing.

"I don't want to marry Lancel, Sandor." she muttered, wiping a tear with the sleeve of her dress. She had stopped calling him Hound a while ago.

He sat near her. "Look, the war isn't over yet. Your brother still has a chance of winning. If it happens, you will go home and in a few years all this will become just a bad memory."

"But..." she feebly said. "what if...what if he is defeated?"

"Then you will still go home, but with a husband." The look of terror in the girl's eyes made him feel something in his heart. He tried to comfort her. "Little bird..." He put a hand on her shoulder. "it could be much worse. You could still be betrothed to Joffrey."

She turned pale.

"Not that Lancel is much better, mind you. Being an annoying prick must be a family thing, for the Lannisters." That wasn't completely true, though. Ser Kevan seemed to be a nice man. _He must be the exception to the rule._

That managed to make her smile, though just briefly.

"And even if you end up marrying him? You could still turn it to your favor. A woman has ways to control her husband without him noticing it." He had meant that to comfort her, to help her find a good side in a possible outcome.

However, he had the opposite effect. The Stark girl cried again, and then suddenly buried her face in his chest, hugging him with her tiny arms. He was so taken aback that at first he didn't react. Then, he put his arms around her.

"Don't cry, little bird. Don't cry. Everything will be alright, you will see."

"Help me..." she cried into his chest. "Help me, Sandor."

 _Help me, Sandor..._

 _Help her..._ "I..." What could he say? "I...I will help you, little bird."

 _Helping her. Sounds easy in theory_ , he thought later, in his bed.

 _But how?_

 **XXXXXX**

 **Loras**

The assassin's body was dragged away by two Tyrell men-at-arms. Loras breathed a sigh of relief and let himself fall on his bed.

"That was close." muttered Garlan, still holding the sword he had used to kill the assassin. "Are you alright, brother?"

"I am fine, Garlan." He closed his eyes. "Just...tired. Tired of all this."

"Soon it will end." said his brother. "Gods willing, before you realize it we will be at Highgarden again, and all this will be just a memory."

"Your optimism never ceases to amaze me." said Loras with a smile.

"Someone has to stay cheerful." Garlan laughed. "Do you want me to stay here with you?"

"That won't be necessary. Just put more guards around my tent." He yawned. "And don't call the maester. I want to try to sleep on my own."

"As you wish, Loras. Have a good night." With that, Garlan left. Loras closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Something he had been finding increasingly difficult, as of late. Between concerns about the war, the painful memories of Renly's death, and the assassination attempts, it was a miracle he was still sane. The milk of the poppy had somehow helped, but drinking too much of it could hurt him.

 _It's all their fault_ , he thought. _Stannis, Selwyn Tarth...Brienne, too, that traitor!_ She had already paid for her crime, but the other two were still alive. And Loras was determined to help them meet the Stranger as soon as possible.

Stannis, especially. True, Selwyn Tarth had sent those assassins after him to avenge his daughter. The one Garlan had killed earlier was just the third, and others were sure to follow. The glory of killing the Knight of Flowers and the golden dragons the Evenstar had promised were enough to tempt a lot of men. Although he deserved to die, Loras couldn't blame him for his actions. If someone were to harm his kin, he would do the same.

However, Stannis was the one that Loras wanted to kill the most. It had all happened because of him. If he hadn't been so stupidly stubborn, he would have joined forces with Renly, and by now the war would be over. Instead, he had chosen to defy Renly and kill him.

Most people were convinced that Brienne had killed Renly out of unrequited love. To Loras, it was too weak of an explanation. Even if she had truly been in love with him, why resort to killing? Why not simply leave the Rainbow Guard, or staying and accepting his refusal? No, there had to be another reason. And that reason was Stannis. He must have paid Brienne to kill his brother. It was the only explanation that made sense, to Loras. Elsewise, why would Stannis have come all the way to Storm's End, instead of joining his allies in the Riverlands? And why hadn't the Evenstar joined him, instead retiring on his home island? Clearly, their agreement hadn't contemplated Brienne's death.

Loras had sworn to the Seven that he would kill Stannis. He would kill him with Renly's sword, wearing Renly's armor, and then would take his head as a trophy. He would make sure his love rested in peace. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he would do his godsdmaned best to keep his promise.

For now, though, he had to rest. The Tyrell host would move at the first light of dawn, and there was still a long way to go before arriving at King's Landing.

Finally, Loras fell asleep.

 _ **AN:**_ _The part about the Smalljon and Dacey was something I decided to add at the very last minute. I wanted to give him a second POV, but I didn't know what to write. Then I remembered him looking at Dacey in Chapter 2, and I thought "Why not?". Also, I wanted to experiment with a little romance (kind of). What do you think of this pairing?_


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

 _"When a dog goes bad, the fault lies with his master."_

 _ **-Kevan Lannister**_

 **Tommen**

"I don't understand." Tommen said, walking in a corridor alongside Uncle Kevan, with Ser Balon Swann silently following them from behind. "Why are we leaving now? It's still dark."

His mother's uncle didn't stop as he talked. "That is exactly why I chose this moment, Tommen. At this time of the day, most people are still sleeping."

Tommen, too, had been sleeping. That is, until a few minutes ago, when Ser Balon had come to wake him up. The Kingsguard knight had been in a hurry, and Tommen had barely had the time to dress. All of his things were still in his bedchamber. Uncle Kevan had been waiting for him, and had explained to him that the royal court would be leaving King's Landing as soon as possible.

"And..." He yawned. "why is that important?"

"Because, if people are still asleep in their beds, there are less chances of someone seeing you leaving the city. Do you understand, now?"

He didn't, though he nodded to please Uncle Kevan.

"I am really sorry you had to wake up so early, Tommen, but it's necessary. For your safety and that of your siblings. You see, it's about your Uncle Stannis..."

"Is he coming here?" asked Tommen worriedly. He may have been just a child, but he had ears. He had oft heard Uncle Kevan talking with Joffrey, and with other members of the court, about his traitor uncle. Uncle Stannis had always been jealous of Tommen's father, and wanted to usurp the throne that was rightfully Joffrey's. Tommen didn't remember much about Uncle Stannis. Their interactions had always been brief and scarce. All he remembered was a tall and bearded man who never smiled. He had never showed any ill will toward Joffrey, Myrcella, or Tommen himself, but if Uncle Kevan was so worried for their safety as to have them leave the city, then it meant that Uncle Stannis really was ill-intentioned.

Uncle Kevan nodded. "Exactly. It will take some time for him to reach the capital, but before that happens, you will all be far away from here."

"And were are we going?"

"To Highgarden. You will be guests of House Tyrell for the time being."

Tommen knew who the Tyrells were. They ruled the Reach, which was the most fertile part of the Seven Kingdoms, and were Joffrey's new friends. Also, his brother was betrothed to Lord Tyrell's daughter, Margaery.

"Have you ever been to Highgarden, Uncle Kevan?"

"Never, but they told me it's a beautiful castle, with white walls and fields full of flowers. Do you like flowers, Tommen?"

"No," he answered. "but Myrcella does."

"Don't worry, then, I am sure you will still find something to like about the castle." He gently stroke Tommen's hair. "Anyway, it's only a temporary measure. And when you will be back, I promise to have a gift waiting for you and your sister." Tommen smiled. He really liked Uncle Kevan. In the months since he had arrived at King's Landing to serve as Joffrey's Hand of the King, he had become Tommen's favorite uncle.

"What about Joffrey? Will he get a gift, too?"

Uncle Kevan frowned. "No. Joffrey will come back with a realm at peace and a bride. He doesn't need more gifts." He looked at Tommen. "And that is why you must keep this a secret between the two of us."

"I will, Uncle Kevan!"

His mother's uncle smiled. "Good boy."

Despite being still sleepy, Tommen felt happy.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Victarion**

He let himself fall on the bed and cursed. He was sweaty, hungry, thirsty, and tired. And angry. No, not angry. He was furious. Furious at the bog devils, those goddamned sons of filthy greenlander whores that had become such a nightmare for the ironborn of Moat Cailin. Most of all, he was furious at himself. He felt as if he had failed in his duty to his men, his people. To Balon. He had never felt this way, and didn't like it at all.

 _You haven't failed yet_ , a voice inside his head said. _You are still holding the Moat. Just like Balon told you to do. This was just a minor complication._

 _A minor complication?_ he thought. _I lost more than half of my party to those poisoned darts and the lizard-lions! We didn't reach the Iron Fleet! And we haven't heard from Deepwood Motte ever since we first arrived here!_

 _They will come to you_ , the voice said calmly. _Do you think they will simply stay still and do nothing? They will come. You just have to wait._

He snorted. _I have been doing nothing but wait. And it's almost turning me mad._

The voice chuckled. _Almost? My dear Victarion, do you really think a sane man would talk with a strange voice inside his own head?_

He punched the nearby wall so hard that a small wound opened on his hand. He grit his teeth and closed his eyes. _Damn this place!_

It had seemed such a simple task, at first. Form a party, leave the Gatehouse Tower at first light of dawn, and reach the Iron Fleet. Victarion had long since deduced that the lack of ravens from both the Fever River and Deepwood Motte was due to archers hidden all around Moat Cailin. It was the only explanation. The northmen, or the bog devils, or maybe all of them working together, were trying to block them inside the castle. That couldn't be allowed. And the only way to avoid that, was to send some men to the fleet and demand reinforcements. It would take a while, but they could do it.

And yet, something hadn't gone as they had planned. Victarion and his men had soon lost themselves among the trees and the bogs. The thought still enraged him. How could that happen? He had been so sure they had taken the right path. They had tried and tried to find a way that would lead them north, to their comrades and salvation. They had failed.

And then, it happened. Whispers all around them, and a strange sound that none of them could identify. And then, before they could realize what was happening, a rain of poisoned darts hit two men right on Victarion's left. Then another man. Then another one, all in a few seconds. Luckily the wooden shields had managed to keep Victarion and the others safe. Mostly, at least. Victarion had had a chance to witness first-hand how accurate the crannogmen could be with their bolts.

And as if all that wasn't enough, then the beasts attacked them. Ralf the Limper was bitten on his good leg by a lizard-lion that had appeared out of nowhere. He had managed to land a few good hits on the beast, but to no avail. Victarion could still hear Ralf's screams as he was dragged away. As they tried to change route, another lizard-lion appeared that almost managed to bite Victarion, all the while the darts kept on arriving. He had had no choice but to order a retreat to the Moat. Strangely enough, they made it back. His suspicions had been confirmed. The enemy wanted to trap them.

He had to do something. He couldn't allow his men to die in vain. He couldn't allow Balon's plan to fail.

 _But what can you do?_ The strange voice had come back. _Unless you had wings..._

"Shut the fuck up!" Victarion screamed. He had to think of a way to...

Just then, someone hurriedly knocked at the door. "My lord!" a young voice yelled.

"Just come in!"

A young boy then stormed into the room. "My lord! I came as soon as I..."

Victarion sprang to his feet. "What happened, boy? Is it reinforcements?" He hoped with all his heart that was the case. Maybe now they could finally...

The boy shook his head. "No, my lord. The...the guards on the battlements just saw a host coming from the south.

"It's the northmen, my lord. They have arrived!"

And for the first time since the battle of Fair Isle, Victarion felt despair.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Sandor**

The little bird had spoken only a few words since they had left. Sandor, too. Not that there was much to say, or many people they could talk to. Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella, of whom Sansa Stark was quite fond, were in another carriage with King Joffrey and their mother. Lord Redwyne's son and the two Lannister guards sitting with them in the carriage didn't talk much. There was Lancel, though. Sandor had expected Ser Kevan's firstborn to stay at King's Landing to aid in the defense of the city. Instead, he had come with them. It made sense, somehow. He had to see to his betrothed's safety. Or his own, maybe.

 _Couldn't you have stayed in the capital, you prick?_

Sandor had once again seen his impression of Lancel Lannister confirmed. The boy had talked so much, and in such a way, that Sandor had wished he could rip his belly open and choke him with his own entrails. Hobber Redwyne had acted before he could do or say anything, and now, after the red cloaked men had stopped them, a blissful silence filled the carriage as the two of them stared daggers at each other. Sandor repressed an urge to chuckle.

"Ser Hobber...does it take much to reach Highgarden?" the little bird said after a while.

The Redwyne boy looked at her in confusion for a moment. Before then, she had never addressed him. Then, he said: "Well, I think it all depends on the speed and size of the party, my lady. For one like ours, I think it would take...several days. Around sixteen or twenty, given that we will be making at least a few stops to rest."

The Stark girl nodded timidly. "Thank you, ser."

"You could have asked me, my lady." Lancel spoke. "I could have certainly given you a better answer than Ser Hobber's..."

"I am a reachman." Hobber Redwyne spat angrily. "And I think I am better versed in matters regarding my homeland than a spoiled westerman..."

"Shut up, you cunts!" Sandor growled, almost on the brink of losing his patience. "I swear, if you start fighting again, I will make such a short work of you two that even your mothers won't recognize you!"

Threatening two highborn young men such as Hobber Redwyne and Lancel Lannister would earn him a severe punishment, under normal circumstances. However, that case was different. The two of them looked at him with fear, and went back to their silence. The Lannister guards seemed to be grateful for his intervention. Sansa Stark coughed, and Sandor noticed that she was repressing a small smile.

Just like Ser Hobber had said, their party made a first stop to rest, some time later. They stopped at Tumbleton, a town in the Reach near the border with the Crownlands. The local lord, a grey-haired man with a huge belly and a booming voice, received them with much fanfare, such was his happines at hosting the royal court. At least, that was what he said to Joffrey. Sandor didn't know whether he was telling the truth, nor did he care. He just wanted to eat something, drink some wine and sleep for a few hours.

However, what he actually wanted was a little different. He woke up in the middle of the night, waited a few minutes, and then started dressing. If he wanted his plan to succeed, everybody else had to be asleep. There were the guards, of course, but he knew how to avoid them. And if something happened...well, he always had his sword at hand. He filled a bag with the bare necessities, and left his room.

Thankfully, the corridor was silent. He heard the chatter of what he assumed were two guards gradually getting away. When he heard nothing more, he moved, as silently as he could given his size. His destination wasn't far, and he reached it in a moment.

He opened the door quietly, and closed it as soon as he entered the room. The creaking of the hinges awoke her, and she gasped in panic.

"Hush, little bird. It's me." he said to calm her.

Her bewildered expression greeted him as she turned and made to rise. "Sandor? What are you doing here?"

He stood in front of her. "Remember that night in your bedchamber, when I said I would help you? Well, here I am. Dress and grab what few things you can carry. We will leave while the rest of the castle is still asleep. I will steal a horse, and then we will leave for Riverrun."

She looked at him as if she couldn't believe her ears. "But...how...and why..."

"I promised you something, didn't I? Now, hurry up. The sooner we go, the better."

Sansa Stark made to say something, then smiled and hugged him. He was taken aback for a moment. "Stop it. We can't waste time."

"Thank you..." she said. "Thank you, Sandor."

Sandor grunted. "Don't thank me." Why am I doing this?, he asked himself as the girl hugged him. It was a risky move, and if something went wrong, they both could end up dead. It was too late now, though. He had made his choice. And he would do his godsdamned best to keep this promise.

Years ago, he had failed to protect his sister.

Now, he would not fail the little bird.

 _ **AN:**_ _I chose to introduce Tommen as a POV character for…something that I plan to do later. As I said, each character will have at least two POVs._


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

 _"There's no shame in fear. What matters is how we face it."_

 _ **-Jon Snow**_

 **Walton**

The stream of piss hit the grass near the base of the tree. Walton waited until it was completely spent, then shook his cock to eliminate the last drops and put it back into his trousers. He sighed with relief. He had been holding it for a few hours, and had felt as if he was going to explode. It had been a busy day after all, with various tasks keeping him walking back and forth throughout the camp. He felt tired, too, so tired that he didn't even want to pay a visit to the camp followers. However, the day was almost over, and now he would have a chance at resting.

Walton raised his head and took a glance at Moat Cailin. The ancient castle loomed in the distance, with its three still standing towers and the ruins of the others. He wondered what the ironborn were doing, and how long the siege would last. He dearly hoped it wouldn't be like the siege of Storm's End. He wasn't sure he could stand waiting for almost an year. He would die of boredom before something happened, whether it be an ironborn surrender or an assault.

He yawned and turned toward the camp. Just then, he noticed Steffon Frey hurriedly walking in his same direction. The riverman didn't even stop as he noticed him.

"Something wrong, Frey?" he said, feigning concern. Taunting the other man was something he never got tired of.

"Mind your own business, Steelshanks." he said without even looking at him. He went past Walton and stopped after a while. Walton fastened his pace. He had understood what the Frey knight had come to do, and didn't want to witness it.

He reached the camp after a few moments. Despite the late hour, it was still full of activity. Some men talked and ate or drank in front of fires, while others trained with their weapons. A few laughed as they talked of the besieged ironmen, mostly green boys from the Frey contingent who had only seen a few skirmishes in their life. They'll not laugh so much when an axe splits their brain in two.

He arrived near the center of the camp, where Lord Bolton's tent stood. His liege was just outside of it, talking with a man who, judging from his features, had to be a Frey. Walton grunted. How many of these fucking weasels are there? He had heard that Lord Walder had a large brood, and every day he saw a confirmation of it. People didn't joke when they said that he could field an army out of his breeches.

The Frey man nodded at something Lord Bolton had said, and left. Lord Bolton saw him, and motioned for Walton to come closer.

"Have you need of me, my lord?"

Lord Bolton grimaced, and Walton noticed him tightening the grip on his walking cane. It had to be his left leg. The wounds he had sustained at the Green Fork had mostly healed, but now he limped and sometimes was still plagued by random pangs of pain. "Come with me. I need to talk to someone who isn't a Frey." Walton obeyed.

Inside of the Bolton's pavilion, a servant poured them hippocras and then left. Lord Bolton sat, and took a sip from his cup. Walton drank the whole cup in one gulp.

"Tell me, Walton, what do you make of this siege?"

Walton scratched his beard. "Well, my lord, I think it's going to be a long affair. The ironborn are a stubborn people. So, unless they suddenly decide to surrender or we decide to attack, we're going to stay around Moat Cailin for who knows how long."

Lord Bolton silently nodded. "The only way to successfully attack the Moat is from the north. Ser Rodrik's arrival is imminent, but he doesn't have the numbers. The Dustins and Ryswells could help him, but they are busy with the Iron Fleet in the Fever River. So, he would first have to join forces with us and Lord Reed's people."

"He succeeded, then?" That was good news.

"He did. I received a raven just a few hours ago. He is marching southward as we speak. He has left a few prisoners at Deepwood Motte, Balon Greyjoy's daughter among them. Most of the ironborn died in the fight, just like many of Ser Rodrik's men." He drank some more wine. "Including my son."

Walton didn't understand at first. Then he remembered that Ser Rodrik had called for reinforcements from all over the North, including the Dreadfort. "That is...well, I don't know what to say, my lord."

"It doesn't matter. Ramsay is dead. Words won't change that." Lord Bolton didn't seem to be mourning his bastard. He never showed his emotions, after all. Walton wasn't even sure he had loved the boy. He had let him live at the Dreadfort and...indulge in his peculiar pastimes. He surely had somehow tolerated Ramsay Snow. He was of his blood, although baseborn.

"Now, unless I manage to sire an heir, upon my death the Dreadfort would go to one of my Dustin cousins." He paused, and then looked at Walton. "What would you do, in my place?"

Walton was a little taken aback by the question. He thought about it for a moment. "Hmm...I don't know, Lord Bolton. I guess I would look for a suitable bride."

There was a moment of silence. "Before you arrived, I was talking to one of the commanders of the Frey troops. He bears your same name and has two sons, one of which you already know."

 _He must be talking about Steffon Frey's father._

"He also has a daughter named Walda, whom he described as the fairest of Lord Walder's great-granddaughters."

Walton had never met one of Walder Frey's female descendants, but if they were anything like their male kin, then they were anything but fair. However, that wasn't his concern. "You mean to ask for her hand, Lord Bolton?"

"Maybe. I am not completely set on the matter. Despite them being allies, I am not too fond of the Freys."

 _You are not the only one, my lord._

"However, you can't bee too picky when it comes to brides. The Freys are as fertile as the lands of the Reach. If I decided to marry her, the Dreadfort would soon be overrun with Boltons."

Walton tapped his fingers around the cup, deep in thought. "My lord, if you are of the opinion that she could be a good bride, then maybe you could at least think about it." It wasn't his place to tell his liege what to do or not to do, but he could at least try to give him good advice. "And even if you still decide to marry, there are other lords with daughters aside from the Freys."

Lord Bolton drank the last of his hippocras. "I will think about that. And thanks for your advice, Walton." He rose to his feet, clutching the cane with his left hand. "Now, please, go call my squire. It's time I had a good leeching."

"Yes, my lord."

 **XXXXXX**

 **Kevan**

"...how about the numbers?" Kevan asked Ser Jacelyn Bywater, walking the ramparts of the city walls.

"Around five thousand men in the City Watch, my Lord Hand. Little more than ten thousand including the men from the lords of the Crownlands, the Lannister ones and the sellswords." answered the commander of the City Watch.

"Can they all be relied upon? The gold cloaks, I mean." He wasn't concerned about the crownlanders or the Lannister men. Although not as many as he would have wanted, they were seasoned soldiers who could fight well. And the sellswords, despite their fickle nature, would be well motivated by payment. The gold cloaks, on the other hand...

Ser Jacelyn sighed. "A third of them, at most. Those who got their cloaks from King Robert and the ones I trained myself."

"And the rest?"

"The rest are mostly green boys who have never seen a real battle, or starving men who joined to get regular meals."

Kevan cursed under his breath. "Do you think they will be able to hold for a while, at least?" Tywin had often said that one man on a wall was worth ten beneath it. And Kevan was about to test the truth of it.

Bywater shrugged. "Hopefully, yes. Unless Stannis' forces manage to make a breach into the walls, we should be able to resist until the arrival of the reachmen."

Kevan prayed that they managed to arrive before Stannis. He thanked the gods for the new alliance with the Reach. If it hadn't been for that, their cause would be completely lost. Now, with the imminent arrival of Lord Tyrell and Lord Redwyne, and with Lord Tarly's host marching westward, the loyalist forces had a hope at victory.

"Speaking of which, are the siege weapons ready?"

"Of course. We have everything ready, from scorpions to spitfires to catapults, all around the city walls. Particularly on the eastern and southern side, since his host and fleet will be coming from there. Our ships are ready, too."

He nodded. "I want the catapults to start throwing the caches of wildfire as soon as the enemy host is in sight. The more we can delay them from reaching the city, the better." He didn't trust that substance, nor the alchemists that had made it. It was too unreliable for his tastes. Unfortunately, desperate times required desperate measures.

"Don't worry, my Lord Hand. The siege weapons will do their job. The whores, especially."

Kevan stopped in his tracks. "The what?" Had he heard right? Bywater meant to...use whores against the enemy?

"Oh, sorry. You didn't know. I meant, the three trebuchets built inside the Mud Gate. My men call them "the Three Whores", because they'll give Stannis a lusty welcome."

Kevan chuckled. "A fitting name, then."

"Indeed. Such things may be vulgar, but they help the men relieve the stress. Gods know how they need it."

Kevan, too, would have liked nothing more than something to relieve his stress. However, that would have to wait. After the end of the war, he would resign his post and go back home, to spend the rest of his days with Dorna. And he would never come back to King's Landing, unless something urgent required it.

As he and Bywater kept on walking, Kevan took a brief look at the walls of the city. In a few weeks, soldiers with battering rams and siege towers would surround it, and rivers of blood would be spilled. Men would die, and other men would live to tell the tale.

He just hoped he would be one of the latter.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Victarion**

He watched as Ralf Kenning breathed his last. Ralf had been spending the last few days in bed, thanks to a wound provided by a poisoned arrow that had managed to scratch him while he was standing on a parapet. Victarion had just slit the poor bastard's throat to end his misery. Something that had become way too common for his tastes. Despite all the precautions, once in a while the bog devils managed to hit one or more of his men with their darts. Of course, they had always tried to heal them first, but to no avail. And as they lay in bed screaming with pain, Victarion would kill them and pray for their souls.

He hated that. Sure, it was better that slowly dying in a bed stained with piss and vomit, but it wasn't an ideal choice either. Dying in battle, surrounded by enemies and with a weapon in your hand. That was a proper way to die.

 _What did you expect?_ The voice in his head had come back. _This is a siege, and you are the besieged. You are surrounded by northmen and crannogmen on all sides. You are trapped._

Victarion didn't answer. He hated that voice. He hated it because he didn't know what it was, whether a sign of his own madness or some kind of foul sorcery trick from the northmen.

He also hated it because it was right. What had started as a glorious fight, the first step in the rebirth of the ironborn, had became a trap in which he and his men had found themselves caught. They were stuck in there, had been for...how much had it been? Months, surely. He had lost count of time. They hadn't managed to get reinforcements from either the Iron Fleet or Deepwood Motte. And while Victarion was sure that the enemy had shot down all the ravens they had sent, a part of him also knew that, had the other ironborn still been able to answer, they would have sent a party by now. What this meant...

 _It means that you and your men have been left alone._

He grit his teeth. _Shut up._

 _It's the truth, and you know it. No help will come from your niece or your men in the fleet. You are alone, Victarion._

"I SAID, SHUT UP!" His angry voice echoed in the empty room, his only audience the corpses of the dead ironborn.

 _Screaming won't help you. What are you going to do, now? You can't go on like this forever._

Victarion cursed. That fucking voice was right again. His own forces at the Gatehouse Tower had dwindled to half their original size. The same had happened to the ones at the Drunkard's Tower. From the Children's Tower, only silence had come. He dreaded to think of what kind of fate had befallen the men that had been stationed there. They were also running out of supplies, slowly but surely. If the siege went on, they would be forced to eat their own dead.

 _I don't think it would be a good idea. Who knows what kind of disease you could get from those corpses._

He growled his frustration at the ceiling. Why was this happening? Was the Drowned God punishing him for something that he had done? But what could it be? Unless wanting to kill his own brother was a sin, Victarion was sure he had done nothing to deserve such a punishment.

 _The Drowned God has nothing to do with this_ , said the voice in a strangely calming tone. _It's simply bad luck._

He clenched his fists and started walking back and forth. He had to do something. He couldn't let Balon's plan to fail.

 _Balon's plan was doomed from the..._

"Shut up!" He took a few deep breaths. What could he do? His men were counting on him. He couldn't fail them. He had to think of a way to save them.

 _You can't save what is already doomed._

This time, Victarion didn't immediately answer.

 _What should I do, then?_ he said after a while.

 _You already know it. There is only one way to come out of this. And it is..._

Surprising even himself, Victarion listened to the voice, and nodded.

 _ **AN:**_ _I am sure you are wondering where that strange voice comes from. Well, to be honest…I don't know. It's something that was added at the last minute. Maybe it's Victarion's conscience talking to him. Maybe he's truly gone mad. Or maybe it's Euron messing with him. Who knows._

 _Anyway, I decided to take a short break. It's August, after all, and I need a little vacation. I'll come back on September 4th with chapter 19, where…some things will happen. Thanks again for reading and for your patience, folks! See you soon!_


	20. Chapter 19

_**AN:**_ _And it's finally here! Sorry for the delay, folks._

 **Chapter 19**

 _"Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities."_

 _ **-Tyrion Lannister**_

 **Davos**

The two parties met in a silence broken only by the hooves and the snorts of the horses. Davos looked at the distant white banner carried by a Lannister knight, and hoped that this parley wouldn't come to nothing.

At his right, Ser Brynden spoke. "Shall we go, my lords?"

Davos silently nodded. He, the Blackfish and Galbart Glover advanced, escorted by a small retinue of knights, and went to meet the leader of the other party.

The Lannister envoy was a tall and handsome young man, with long dark hair and a scowl on his face. He wore a burnished bronzed armor, with the burning tree of House Marbrand on the breastplate, and was accompanied by six other knights. He looked at both of them, and then stopped his horse.

"I am Ser Addam of House Marbrand, here on behalf of Lord Tywin Lannister." the young man said. "May I know who I will be talking with?"

"Ser Brynden of House Tully, commander of the riverlander host." the Blackfish answered in a firm voice.

"Lord Galbart of House Glover. I speak for the northmen."

Davos tried to ignore his own nervousness. "Lord Davos of House Seaworth, Hand to King Stannis Baratheon and his representative here in the west." he said, with as much authority as he could.

Ser Addam narrowed his eyes. "Hmm...the infamous Onion Knight. I have heard tell of your deeds."

"I am pleased to see that my fame precedes me." said Davos. "However, I am afraid I know nothing about you, Ser Addam."

"I am sure you at least know something about House Marbrand, since you have been occupying our seat for months." said the westerman with poorly concealed rage.

"I can assure you that your kin have been treated with the utmost care, Ser Addam. You have nothing to fear about them or your castle." Lord Glover spoke. Davos promptly suppressed a chuckle. _Wait until he learns of the wine cellars..._

"And why should I believe you?"

"We may be enemies, but we are not barbarians." said Ser Brynden. "Now, I think we came here to talk about other matters. Unless that white cloth over there is the new banner of your House..."

The westerman grit his teeth. "Very well." He paused. "Lord Tywin has received your letter, and has given me the authority to negotiate your surrender. Like you, he is tired of this bloodbath and wishes for it to end."

Davos frowned. The letter had been an idea of his, an attempt to end the hostilities in the west and try to settle matters peacefully. Maybe it was a foolish attempt, but it was worth a try. However, it seemed that Lord Tywin had misunderstood his intentions. "I think there has been a misunderstanding, Ser Addam. We requested a parley, true, but to negotiate the surrender of House Lannister."

Marbrand didn't seem surprised. "This changes nothing. It is you who will yield today. Or do you mean to tell me that your wish to die in battle is that strong?"

Ser Brynden intervened. "Both our homelands have been ravaged by conflict. Thousands have died, and thousands more will unless House Lannister surrenders." Davos noticed the unease in the riverman's words. He felt sorry for him. He had lost a brother and a nephew in the early phases of the war. Peace with the lions was the last thing on the Blackfish's mind. Davos' authority surpassed him, though. It was a testament to Ser Brynden's character that he had obeyed all the same.

"You mean, unless Houses Stark and Tully surrender and bend the knee to their rightful king." Ser Addam added.

"Stannis Baratheon is the rightful monarch of the Seven Kingdoms." said Davos. "Joffrey Waters is a bastard born of incest..."

"Don't you dare speak of King Joffrey like that!" spat Marbrand. "Lies, that's what they are. You are a fool if you believe them, Lord Davos."

"The only fool here is Lord Tywin, Ser Addam. Why keep on fighting when he has no hope of winning? Surrender, and I promise you that King Stannis will be merciful."

"No hope of winning? I beg to differ, my lord. Our forces already outnumber yours, and after Lord Tarly's arrival we will have an even greater advantage. And even if Stannis somehow managed to take Storm's End, Lord Tyrell's host would take care of him before he could even see the walls of King's Landing. Show some sense. Yield, and you might live to see another day."

Davos cursed under his breath. _Why couldn't the Reach stay out of this?_

"We have allies, too, Ser Addam." he said. "And they have finally sent their forces westward. I don't think I need to remind you of the prowess of the knights of the Vale. It's only a matter of days before they arrive here." More like a few weeks. He prayed that the valemen managed to arrive in time.

"We will still outnumber you."

"You seem very confident in your chances, Ser Addam. Accept an advice from an old warrior: never give victory for granted." the Blackfish said.

"I thank you for your advice, Ser Brynden. Allow me to return the favor: surrender while you still can."

"As Lord Davos told you earlier: surrender, and you shall have mercy."

There was a moment of silence, in which Davos prayed for the best.

Finally, Ser Addam spoke. "It seems that this parley has reached a stalemate. I will ask you one last time: will you surrender and bend the knee to King Joffrey?"

Neither of the three men answered. Davos felt his hopes die.

"As I expected. I shall bear the news to Lord Tywin. Farewell, my lords. We will meet again on the battlefield." With that, Ser Addam turned back, followed by his men.

Davos cursed again, louder this time.

"Don't blame yourself, Lord Davos." Ser Brynden told him later in his tent, after they had returned to their camp. "It's pointless."

"I...I thought the war could be ended without further blood spilling. I was a fool, Ser Brynden." Davos let himself fall on a chair, and sighed.

The riverman didn't answer, but Davos could guess what he was thinking.

"I will go to inform Lord Stark." Ser Brynden bowed and left. Davos closed his eyes.

 _I should have foreseen this_ , he told himself. He touched his pouch. _You didn't bring me luck, this time._ He shook his head.

He hoped he would be more lucky in the battle to come.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Sandor**

"Are you done with that?"

"Just a moment..."

Sandor grunted at her words. Once again, he was grateful for being born a man. You could piss wherever you wanted, fuck whoever you wanted, and didn't have to deal with that fucking moon blood. The thought of having to bleed from his lower parts unsettled him. He didn't dare to imagine what it was like having to constantly worry about that. It had to be a royal pain in the ass, at the very least. No wonder some people called it "women's curse".

 _Did it fucking have to happen just now?_ Couldn't it wait until we reached Riverrun? There at least she would have the aid of her kin and a septa. Instead, her first moon blood had come while they were still leagues and leagues away from the castle. It wasn't the worst thing that could happen to them, but it was still a bother.

Finally, the little bird came back from behind the tree. Sandor breathed a sigh of relief. She had been struggling with that cloth he had stolen for an eternity. He hadn't dared helping her, and since stopping somewhere to ask someone for help was too risky, the girl had had to do it herself.

"I did what I could." the Stark girl said.

"You'll have to make do with that, for now." He coughed. "Do you have something else to do?"

"No."

"Good. We can leave now, then."

"Can't we wait a little longer? I still feel sleepy."

"No. We need to move while it's dark. We will stop to sleep as soon as the sun rises."

The little bird nodded grudgingly. Sandor noticed for the first time the bags under her eyes. She wasn't used to hardships, and the voyage was taking its toll on her. It was necessary, though. After sunset, there were less people around and less chances to be noticed. They had followed this rule ever since escaping from Tumbleton, and so far they had had no problems.

Sandor put a hand on her shoulder. "Come on, little bird. It's going to end soon."

"Sooner than you expected, Clegane."

The voice had come suddenly out of nowhere. Sandor had barely the time to turn toward its source, when an arrow grazed his left cheek and nearly hit Sansa Stark, then hitting the tree behind her.

"What's happening?" she whispered, a hint of fear in her voice.

"Stay behind me, and don't move!" Sandor moved and covered the girl with his bulk. He unsheathed his sword and grit his teeth. "I don't know who the fuck you are or what the fuck you want, but get one step closer, and I swear I will gut you like a fucking fish!"

"Bold words, for just one man." the voice from earlier said, and soon after at least ten armed men came out of the trees and bushes. While one of them caught Sandor's horse before it could escape, the others aimed their weapons at him.

"I wouldn't move, if I were you." said the same one that had spoken earlier. It was dark and the man's face was partially hidden by a hood, but Sandor had a feeling he had already heard that voice.

"What the fuck do you want? And who the fuck are you people?"

"We are king's men. We were sent here in King Robert's name to bring justice to the Riverlands."

 _King Robert's name...what the fuck was he talking about?_ He snickered. "Maybe you haven't heard, but that drunken oaf has been dead for a while. He is the king of the worms, now."

"It doesn't matter. We still have a task to accomplish." The hooded man stepped closer. "You Lannister lackeys killed countless innocent men, women and children..."

Just then, Sandor managed to get a glimpse of the man's face. An image suddenly came into his mind, a dashing young man with a black cloak and a black shield slashed by lightning. Someone with whom Sandor had spoken briefly, but that he still remembered.

"Wait, I know you. You are that stormlander...Dondarrion. Beric Dondarrion."

The man stopped and gave him a half smile. "You remember me. I am honored." He sighed. "Though I have to admit I am quite different from the man you met in King's Landing." He took off his hood, revealing his face. Sandor heard the little bird gasp behind him.

The Beric Dondarrion that had joined the Hand's tourney had been a handsome young man. The one in front of Sandor, though, was something completely different. His cheeks were hollow, and his skin was marked by spots of red-gold hair. One of his eyes was missing, and he had a dark black ring all around his neck.

"What the fuck happened to you?" he said, tightening the grip on his sword.

"The war." He brought a hand to his missing eye. "I have to thank your masters for this." Then he reached his neck. "And this, too. They hanged me. It's only thanks to a now dead friend that I am still alive." He paused. "You know, I was looking for your brother to bring him the king's justice, but the valemen got him first."

 _What?_ Gregor was dead? "How?" He was just curious. If Gregor was dead, all the better. One less burden for Sandor. He just wanted to know how it had happened. And maybe also where he had been buried, so that he might piss on his brother's grave.

"It doesn't matter. He got what he deserved. You, on the other hand..."

Dondarrion's men started to slowly encircle him. Sandor growled.

"If you wanted to kill me, you should have brought more than this paltry lot."

"You aren't strong enough to face ten men. Drop your sword, let the girl go, and I promise to give you a fast death."

"And I promise to rip your arms off and shove them up your ass if you don't get the fuck out of here!" Sandor shouted. He could easily take care of Dondarrion and his men. Judging from their looks, they weren't trained soldiers. They had to be farmers or swineherds the stormlander had picked around the Riverlands. He wasn't even worried for his own life. The Stark girl, though...he had to think of her safety, first.

"Wait, stop!"

 _What the..._

The girl suddenly bolted from behind his back and jumped in front of Sandor.

"I told you to not move!" What the fuck was she thinking?

"Lord Dondarrion, you don't know me, but you knew my father. I am Sansa Stark."

"Sansa Stark is a Lannister prisoner. And she is in King's Landing."

"I was. Ser Kevan Lannister secretly had the royal court moved to Highgarden. We stopped at Tumbleton to rest, and Sandor offered to take me to Riverrun."

The stormlander chuckled, a humorless noise that was followed by his men's laughter. "And why would he do that?"

"Because he is a good man. I know he has done terrible things in his life, but he is not his brother. He helped me when they beat me and comforted me when I cried." She stepped closer to Sandor. "Believe me when I say it. He is a good man. And he is innocent of whatever atrocities the Lannisters have committed in the Riverlands."

Dondarrion looked at her for a moment. "Even if he actually...is innocent, how can I be sure that what you claim is true? For all I know, you could be some tavern wench that he paid to warm his nights."

Sandor snarled. "Mind your words, stormlander."

"I can prove who I am. Just ask me anything about Winterfell or Riverrun."

There was a moment of silence as Dondarrion pondered her words. "Hmm...now that I think of it, there is a better way to prove your claim. Come with us. If you truly are who you say you are, then there is someone in our camp who will be quite happy to see you."

"I will do as you say, my lord."

"He has to be bound, though." he said, nodding at Sandor. "He is too dangerous to be let free."

Before Sandor could do or say anything, Sansa Stark put a hand on his arm. "Please, Sandor. Do as he says."

A look at her pleading eyes was all it took for Sandor to lose all of his will to fight. He let his sword fall and stood silent as Dondarrion's men bound his hands behind his back. The little bird stood by his side as they forced him onward.

"Let's go, now. Our camp isn't far..." Dondarrion said, and Sandor wished that whoever had caught him, had done a better job at hanging him.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Walton**

"FOR THE DROWNED GOD!"

The ironborn warrior came at him with the fury of a wild beast. Walton blocked him with his shield.

"The Others bugger your god, you bloody savage!" Their blades met with a clang that went lost in the cacophony that surrounded them. "You and your fucking islands! Piss on them!"

Walton cursed. The ironborn were winning. Few though they were, they fought like daemons. The rivermen had been swatted like flies, and the northmen were doing little better. He had lost sight of Lord Bolton, and was bleeding from a series of wounds. By now, he had no more hopes of winning. However, he would bring with him as many ironmen as he could. He would make sure that the name of Steelshanks Walton would be cursed by the ironmen for generations to come!

However, just as he was about to strike, something happened. He felt pain from somewhere on his back and something cold going through his body. He looked down, and saw a blade coming out from his chest.

 _How..._ He was wearing mail and leather. How did that happen?

"This is the same sword that slew your liege." whispered someone from behind him. The words barely had the time to sink in, and then Walton was stabbed by the other ironborn in front of him. He cursed his enemies one last time, and a river blood came out of his mouth. He closed his eyes, ready to meet the ghosts of those he had known...

...and instead woke up inside a tent. He noticed he was laying on a bed, and from the voices he heard there was someone else in there with him. He rose to sit, saw other beds with other men on them, and a maester coming toward him.

"Good, you are awake. You have been sleeping for a while." The other man had short brown hair veering on grey. Walton had never seen him before.

Walton blinked his eyes a few times. He was alive...and not fighting? Then, that had been just a dream. "How long, maester?"

"Almost two days. When they brought you here you were half dead, we didn't even know whether you would make it."

He looked at his body, noticing how his naked torso was covered in bandages. His head too, judging from what he felt on it. His legs seemed to be fine, though.

"What happened?"

"You don't remember?"

"No, I...the last thing I remember was...talking with Ser Rodrik and going to sleep. And then I woke up here."

The maester nodded. "Hmm...the blow at the head must have made you loose some of your recent memories."

"Is it a bad thing?"

The maester shook his head. "Usually lost memories come back by themselves little by little. Sometimes with dreams."

 _Dreams?_ "Before I woke up, I dreamt we were fighting the ironborn. And we were losing."

"Losing? How strange. It's the opposite of what happened. It seems that your mind has revised some events."

Mind, memories...all that talk was making his head ache. He tried to get out of the bed, but the maester stopped him before he could even move. "Please, don't. At least wait until I remove your bandages."

Walton grunted and went back to sitting. "What happened, maester? Did we really fight the ironmen?"

The maester nodded. "Yes. They attacked two days ago, in the morning."

Walton couldn't believe his ears. The ironmen had attacked them? Why? Attacking a besieging army was a stupid idea, unless you desperately wanted to die. "But...why?"

"From what the few survivors said, they were growing more and more desperate. No reinforcements, no news from the other ironborn, and dwindling supplies. Basically, their leader decided it was better to die fighting."

Walton found himself agreeing with that. "So...we won." That was good news. "Wait. You mentioned survivors."

"There were a few ironmen who surrendered to us. However, by now they must have been executed. Lord Bolton mentioned something about it yesterday."

Walton nodded. No more ironmen, Moat Cailin secure...they had fulfilled their task. Now they would surely rejoin the main host in the Westerlands. "Did he say when we will be leaving?"

"Not yet, but I think it will be a matter of time." the maester answered. "Now, please, stay here until I came back. You need to rest for at least a few more hours, then I will remove your bandages."

Walton grunted, but complied. He went back to laying, and as the maester left the tent, he closed his eyes.


	21. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

 _"I have felt from the beginning that Stannis was a greater danger than all the others combined."_

 _ **-Tywin Lannister**_

 **Stannis**

The sun shone bright in his sky. A flock of seagulls screeched as they passed over the Fury. Standing on the deck, Stannis looked toward King's Landing. It was getting closer, and he could see the outline of the Red Keep up on Aegon's High Hill. He could also see the walls of the city, no doubt teeming with men and all kinds of weapons.

 _Here we are, finally_. It hadn't been an easy voyage, with bad weather that had led to the loss of a galley on the rocks of Shipbreaker Bay. But they had made it. The fleet had arrived, and with his army having reached the Blackwater Rush around the same time, everything was ready for the battle. He was ready.

He wondered what was Davos doing. No news had come from the Westerlands before he had left Storm's End. He hoped his Onion Knight and his other loyal subjects were alive. Most importantly, he hoped they had won. They had to. The thought of a defeat was almost unbearable to Stannis. However, even if it actually happened, he knew he would fight until his last breath for justice and everything that was right.

From his right, Melisandre silently moved and touched his arm. "Are you worried, my king?"

"Only a fool wouldn't." he answered. He had learned long ago to not give victory for granted. "I was standing in this very place sixteen years ago, when I assaulted Dragonstone. Still fatigued from the siege of Storm's End, but determined to win."

"But you won, that day. You took Dragonstone from the Targaryens."

"And the Targaryens managed to escape. Half a victory, it was." Stannis didn't like to remember that day and what followed it. To him, not capturing the last Targaryens was and would always be a failure on his part.

Melisandre took his hand. Stannis tried to not look at her. "It doesn't matter. The past is the past. The only thing you need to worry about is now. And even then, you just have to put your faith in the Lord of Light."

Stannis grimaced at that. He was growing tired of her ramblings. He had already told her, in no uncertain terms, that he had no intention of ever converting to her faith. And yet, once in a while she came back to that topic, usually after one of their nightly meeting. He supposed she hoped to take advantage of his post-coital bliss.

He cursed himself for that weakness. Why hadn't he sent her away? Why did he still keep around what was basically his mistress? Was he really not that different from Robert and the other men of Westeros? And how could he demand dutifulness from his men, when he himself couldn't even keep his marriage vows? He grit his teeth. He would have to do something about that as soon as possible.

He felt Melisandre getting closer, and then her breast against his arm. "You seem nervous, Your Grace. Perhaps I could...relieve you of your stress?" she whispered in his ear with a husky voice that sent a familiar heat all through his body.

"I..." He felt his manhood begin to stiffen. "No!" He moved away from her. "Now is not the time for...for such things." He regained his composure. "I have a battle to fight. If you wish to help me, then do not stand in my way."

For a moment Melisandre didn't speak, her bewildered eyes fixed on him. "As you wish, my king." She bowed and left. Stannis breathed a sigh of relief. If she had stayed, he was afraid he would have taken her right on the deck of the Fury.

A few minutes passed. Then, a warhorn boomed, soon followed by another, and another. The signal for every ship to lower its sails, as he had ordered to not expose them to the scorpions and spitfires on the walls of the capital. The oarsmen ran to their tasks, and everybody else prepared themselves for the battle. Some men prayed, while others shouted encouragements to each other.

Stannis just took a deep breath. He brought a hand to his sword, and looked again toward the city. A thin line of ships was slowly approaching. They all looked to be galleys, but there was a single shape larger than all the others. It had to be the King Robert's Hammer, the only warship in the royal fleet capable of overmatching the Fury. It was to be expected that it would be at the forefront of the defense of the capital.

The warhorns boomed again. "Battle speed!" he shouted. Oars rose and fell at a steady rhythm, and the Fury surged forward.

Stannis grit his teeth. It was going to be a fierce battle, one that would decide the fate of the realm.

He would make sure to win it.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Yohn**

The last time they he had met, Yohn and the Blackfish could have been called old. Now, although they were of an age, Ser Brynden looked way older. In fact, he looked...well, ancient. His hair and beard were completely white, and his face showed more wrinkles than an old man ought to have. Yohn supposed it had something to do with everything the other man had had to deal with lately.

"Lord Royce...well met." said Ser Brynden. He made to rise from his seat, but suddenly stopped and clenched his teeth. "My leg..." He went back to sitting.

"Are you wounded, Ser Brynden?"

"I fell from my horse during the battle. The maester says...gods, it hurts...says it isn't grave and should heal in a few weeks. I should be resting, but..." He shrugged.

"I understand." Yohn felt sorry for him. "There are more pressing matters to deal with."

The other man nodded, and motioned for Yohn to take a seat. "Indeed. This war has been anything but easy."

"First, let me apologize for not arriving earlier. We..."

"You have nothing to apologize for." Ser Brynden interrupted him. "Armies don't move fast, I know that well. And I heard there were a few obstacles along the way..."

Yohn nodded. "Yes. The Mountain and his men, then Harrenhal and the occasional group of Lannister outriders."

"Well, now you are here, and that's the only thing that matters. Tell me, how many men did you bring?"

"Around thirty thousand." Yohn wasn't completely sure about that number, but he could guess. "Not the entire fighting strength of the Vale, sadly. Many died in the civil war and on the way here, and some of our lords chose to stay neutral."

The Blackfish nodded grimly. "It will be enough. Your arrival is most welcome, indeed."

"How about your own forces?"

"I am not sure. We suffered casualties, and we had to send a contingent to Moat Cailin to deal with the ironborn. However, we should still have little less than twenty thousand soldiers. Northmen, rivermen, and those stormlanders and sellswords that came with Lord Seaworth."

"Lord Seaworth..." He knew that name. "You mean King Stannis' Hand?"

"Yes. He too was wounded in the battle. If the maester allows it, you will be able to meet him later."

Yohn leaned back in his chair. "This battle you spoke of...it must have been fierce."

"It was, my lord. It happened four days before your arrival. Many miles south of here, along the Goldroad. Lord Seaworth had tried to negotiate the surrender of the Lannister forces...but as you can guess, it didn't go well.

"Then there was the battle. It didn't last long, and both us and the westermen were forced to retreat, but it was a terrible thing. I won't lie, Lord Royce. I feared for my life. I felt like this only once, when as a green boy I fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings."

Yohn understood how the riverman felt. He too had fought his first battle against the Band of Nine.

"It was only thanks to Theon Greyjoy that I survived."

"Theon Greyjoy?"

"Balon Greyjoy's son. He has been a ward of House Stark for the last ten years. He came south with the northmen, and has fought alongside us ever since." He sighed. "You know, at first I didn't trust him that much. And now I owe him my life, and that of my nephew."

"Your..."

"I mean Robb, my niece Catelyn's son."

"Lord Stark. Was he wounded, too?"

The Blackfish grimaced. "He had already been, in the early stages of the war. He lost an eye and the use of his sword arm. He couldn't fight anymore." He seemed to hesitate, then continued. "For a while he led the northmen from the rear. But he felt useless. He wanted to fight just like the rest of us. I told him time and time again to stay away from the battlefield, and he..." He paused, and Yohn had a feeling that the other man was trying to not cry.

"Theon sacrificed himself to save him. Now Robb is in his bedchamber, but he is in such a bad shape that the maester isn't even sure he will survive." He cursed. "Were he to die...I don't even want to imagine how his mother would react."

"Ser Brynden...well, I don't know what to say." This was something he didn't quite know how to deal with. "I wish you and Lord Stark a fast recovery."

"Thank you, Lord Royce." Ser Brynden shifted in his chair and clenched his teeth again.

"Do you want me to leave? If you need to rest..."

"No, stay. We need to formulate a strategy. The Lannister forces are still a threat. And it's only a matter of time before the reachmen arrive. My wound can wait."

Yohn nodded, and then he and the Blackfish started to discuss and draw plans.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Kevan**

In the far distance, three great fires raged, looking almost like a wall of flame such was their size and proximity. The unusually hot wind beat at his bare face, yet he could not turn away. The green flames gave the surrounding landscape a look that was at the same time eerie and beautiful. _A terrible beauty_ , Kevan thought. _Just like dragonfire_. He wondered if the dragonriders of old felt like this, when they went to war on their flying beasts.

This wasn't dragonfire, though. It was wildfire. Something less reliable, but as much as deadly. Kevan had had doubts, at first, but with no better choice, he had decided to use it to defend King's Landing. And so far, it had worked. The Three Whores had indeed given Stannis' army a lusty welcome. His soldiers had been forced to retreat, but not before losing some of their numbers. Kevan hoped Stannis was among the dead. And if he wasn't...well, he would be soon enough.

Sure, it would take a while for the flames to extinguish. The alchemists had informed him that wildfire could burn for hours. And the land would be scarred, possibly forever. But it was worth it, as long as the wildfire kept Stannis' army away from the city. He just prayed it wouldn't spread too much.

The fleet, too, was doing its duty. Even from where he was standing, Kevan could see the royal fleet engaging the enemy. They had less ships than Stannis, but sometimes quantity didn't matter. Over the course of history, many an army had been defeated by a smaller host. Strategy was what really mattered, in a war. And even if they were defeated on that front...well, as long as they could hold until the arrival of the reachmen, it didn't matter.

"My Lord Hand." a voice suddenly called him. Kevan turned. Bywater had arrived.

"Ser Jacelyn. Do you have any news for me?" Please, let it be good news.

"I am afraid not." the commander of the City Watch answered, his face as grim as his voice. "Lord Varys is nowhere to be found."

Kevan groaned. "Stop looking, then. We can't neglect a battle because of a godsdamn spider." Where in seven hells had that eunuch gone? Had he escaped the city, maybe to join Stannis? Was he hiding somewhere out of fear? His skills could be useful, even in such a situation. He cursed. He had been right in not trusting him.

"Tell me, have there been any sightings of the Tyrell host? Or maybe the Redwyne fleet?"

"None so far, my Lord Hand. Their arrival should be imminent, though."

He shook his head. "I don't like this, Ser Jacelyn. They should have already been here, by now."

"They will arrive. It's just a matter of time."

"Then let's try to hold until then. Double the guards on the ramparts, and keep all the weapons ready."

"As you wish, my Lord Hand."

Bywater left, and Kevan did the same after a while. He spent the next hours walking on the ramparts, inspecting the guard posts and talking with the soldiers and their commanders. In the absence of the king, it was up to him to keep the discipline and inspire the men. If his presence could strengthen their resolve even just a little, he would be there. The soldiers seemed to appreciate it.

Everything seemed to be fine until sunset, when a goldcloak came running to him.

"My Lord Hand!" The other man was panting hard. "The enemy..."

"What happened?"

"They...they've landed men on the tourney grounds! Hundreds of men! They're bringing a ram up to the King's Gate!"

Kevan cursed loudly. "Who commands there?"

"Ser Meryn Trant, my...my lord."

Meryn Trant. Not someone Kevan fully trusted, but a decent warrior nonetheless. He should be able to keep them at bay. However, this wasn't something that he could delegate to others.

"Tell Ser Mandon I am coming to lead the defense. And find Ser Jacelyn! Have him bring more men to the King's Gate."

"Yes, my lord!" The goldcloak ran to follow the orders. Kevan took a deep breath. _This is it_. Somehow, the enemy had reached one of the gates. If they managed to break through...he shook his head. He couldn't allow it. They had to be stopped. King's Landing would not fall.

Kevan reached his horse, and then galloped off toward the King's Gate.

 _ **AN:**_ _I'm sure you were all expecting some big battle scene. Well, I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. I suck at writing action scenes. Really, really suck. So, you'll have to make do with the prologue and the aftermath of said battles, and the thoughts of the characters._

 _We're approaching the end, dear readers! Around five or six chapters, and then the story'll be complete._

 _And before I forget it…happy birthday to the story! It seems like yesterday that it all began. Can't believe it's already been a year._


	22. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

 _"A shadow is a thing of darkness."_

 _ **-Davos Seaworth**_

 **Stannis**

It had been almost two years since the last time Stannis had walked through the corridors of the Red Keep. The place hadn't changed at all. It still had that look of magnificent decadence shared by the surrounding city. It still reeked of dirt and sweat in some places, and that old stray black cat still haunted the shadowed corners of the castle.

He had changed, though. In that amount of time, he had gone from being Master of Ships and Lord of Dragonstone to King of the Seven Kingdoms. A remarkable change, though not wholly complete. He was the king. The Iron Throne was his by rights. And yet, there were some who didn't want to acknowledge that, who kept on defying him. He had to defeat them if he wanted to secure his rule.

He waited as the guards opened the doors to the throne room, Melisandre by his side as always, almost a red shadow mirroring his own. The woman followed him silently. She hadn't talked much to him lately. Stannis supposed it had something to do with his refusal of her...offer, before the battle against the royal fleet began. Well, he couldn't care less. Such trivial things could wait. Right now, he had more pressing matters to deal with.

"King Stannis of House Baratheon, First of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. And the Lady Melisandre of Asshai, royal advisor." a soldier announced. Stannis frowned a little at those last words. Royal advisor. He promised himself to do something about Melisandre as soon as possible.

The people in the throne room knelt. Mostly his men, but also the few crownlords that hadn't managed to leave the city, and the highborn prisoners. However, one of the latter kept on standing. Stannis looked at him.

"Ser Kevan." Tywin Lannister's brother was staring at him defiantly, his hands tied behind his back. He looked as stubborn and proud as any of his kin, even though he was covered in bruises and scars. It seemed that even in defeat, lions didn't break easily.

"Lord Stannis." he answered. A guard punched Kevan in the stomach. The westerman howled in pain and the guard forced him on his knees. "You will address the King as Your Grace, traitor!"

Ser Kevan coughed, then raised his head. "The only traitor...in this room...is your false king. He betrayed his kin, even his own wife! Tell me, Lord Stannis, are you that fond of your mistress..." The guard hit him again, this time right in the face. A spurt of blood went out of Ser Kevan's mouth.

"Enough!" said Stannis. "Bring Ser Kevan to a maester, then have him sent to the dungeons." He knew he had to be merciful with those who willingly bent the knee to him, as much as it irked him. Those who didn't, on the other hand, would soon get the justice they deserved.

"You think you have won..." Ser Kevan said as the guards raised him to his feet. "You fool. You may have taken the capital, but you haven't won. King Joffrey is safe, out of your grasp, and soon enough you will meet your end!" After another punch from the guards, he fell silent.

Stannis watched as the westerman was dragged out of the throne room. He is half right. I haven't truly won yet. For although he had defeated the enemy at King's Landing, he still had battles to fight. He still had a lot to do.

It was only much later, after spending the rest of the day drawing plans in the Small Council chamber with his battle commanders, that he allowed himself to rest. He had the servants prepare his bed and then retired to the royal apartments. He felt tired. He felt in need of relief. Perhaps that was why, when Melisandre came to knock at his door later in the night, he let her in.

"You look more worried than usual, my king." she said after a while, running a hand through his naked chest. "Is it the reachmen you are thinking about?"

Damn that woman! Could she read minds, too? "We aren't ready for another battle. Not so soon." With multiple casualties and as many wounded, his army wasn't in the ideal shape to fight. "We can use Horas Redwyne to make his lord father see reason." He was glad they had managed to secure the Redwyne heir before he was smuggled away. "His uncle, though..." Stannis had no doubt that a threat to his nephew's life wouldn't convince the Fat Flower to bend the knee. He grit his teeth. They could reinforce the walls and rebuild the parts that had been destroyed, forcing the reachmen to besiege the city. Although he didn't like the thought of finding himself again behind stone walls fending off a siege. And how much could that last, anyway? He wondered how his loyal subjects were doing. They had to be still busy with the Lannisters and the ironborn, else they would have sent their hosts to him. He could try to hold on until their arrival. But what if they had been defeated? He had to do something. Perhaps the Dornish...

"You needn't worry, Stannis." He frowned. He didn't like when she used his name. "R'hllor is still with you. He won't let you be defeated."

"How? Is he going to personally ride to battle on a flaming horse?" He was growing more and more tired of her ramblings.

Melisandre smiled and kissed his cheek, while her hand slowly went toward his lower parts. "No, my king. But he will still grant you victory..."

 **XXXXXX**

 **Loras**

"I thought you would choose to besiege him, Father." Loras said, taking a bite of the roasted pig that the servants had just brought to their table. At his right, Garlan took a sip from his cup.

His father downed another cup of wine, the third since they had all sat in his tent for dinner. "And why would I do that, Loras?"

"You already did it during Robert's Rebellion. I..."

"You thought I would do it again, didn't you?"

Loras nodded.

The Lord of Highgarden ate more than a few bits of pig. Then, with a satisfied sigh, he turned again to Loras. "I will tell you a little secret, Loras. Despite what you may have heard from your lady grandmother, I am not an oaf. Far from it."

"Father, I never..." Lady Olenna sometimes made...not exactly flattering comments about her son's intelligence, but Loras had never thought of his father as stupid.

"Let me finish. What I am about to tell you must stay a secret. And that goes for you, too, Garlan." He waited for Garlan to nod, then continued. "Have you ever wondered why I just sat around Storm's End for a year, instead of assaulting it, or joining the royal army in the Riverlands?"

"Well, I always thought you wanted to take the castle by starving its inhabitants. Then, you would basically eliminate Robert's power base."

His father chuckled. "Almost. You see, back then, things were quite different. The royalists had the numerical advantage, but the rebels were more battle hardened. And until the Battle of the Trident, it wasn't clear who was going to win.

"So, I decided to take a cautious approach. If the royalists won, they could hardly accuse me of doing nothing. But if Robert won, he wouldn't be too harsh on me, and House Tyrell would be in a strong position, out of all the loyalists houses. And you know how things went."

Loras nodded at his father. So, that was what had really happened? He wasn't sure he liked that. From a purely strategic point of view, it was an intelligent move. However, it sounded a little too close to treason, for Loras' tastes. Had he been in his father's place, he would probably have died for his king.

"Remember, sons. Loyalty is a good and noble thing. But sometimes, a man has to be pragmatic and think of his family first."

"Then, why did you choose to assault King's Landing now, Father?" Garlan asked.

"Because, my boy, Stannis simply can't win. The Starks and Tullys have been slowly bleeding their hosts against the Lannisters, and by now they may be already defeated. The valemen could be a problem, but with Lord Tarly on his side, Lord Tywin will wipe them out before long." He ate another piece of roasted meat. "As for us, we are in a numerical advantage. The message from King's Landing said that Stannis has suffered heavy losses. We will take him by land and sea. And before you know it, the war will be over, and your sister will be queen." He laughed. "House Tyrell has a bright future ahead of it!"

Loras just nodded, thinking of when he would finally get the chance to kill Stannis. The dinner went on, and then everybody retired for the night. A though task awaited them, and they needed all the rest they could get.

As soon as he closed his eyes, he fell into a fitful sleep. He turned over on the bed as the nightmares came. Nightmares of Renly dying, and Loras being unable to save him. Just like had happened. However, in this nightmare it was Stannis who swung the blade that slit Renly's throat. Loras screamed as Stannis threw Renly's corpse on the ground and laughed, a cold, cruel sound that chilled his blood. Then, Loras drew his sword and charged the evil Baratheon.

And just when he was about to strike, something happened that woke him up. He blinked twice, and as his vision cleared, he noticed Garlan standing over him. His brother had the look of someone who had just stared the Stranger in the eyes.

"Hurry, Loras! Something happened to Father!"

In an instant Loras jumped out of bed. "What is it?"

"I don't know yet. The guards heard a scream from inside his tent. Better take your sword. It could be an enemy attack!"

Loras cursed. He grabbed his weapon and followed his brother.

They arrived at their father's tent to find it surrounded by common soldiers and a few of the lords. He pushed through the crowd and arrived at the entrance. "WHAT HAPPENED?" he yelled.

A maester came forward. "Ser Loras...I..."

"What happened, old man? Is my father hurt?"

The maester seemed to hesitate. "I...I am sorry to have to give you this news, but...your lord father has just died."

Loras felt the world fall on him. _Father...father is dead?_ "How?" He heard Garlan and the other men gasp behind him.

"I don't know how, but...someone must have managed to slip into his tent and slit his throat. I came as soon as the guards called me, but there was nothing I could do. Lord Mace...he muttered something about a shadow, and then...and then he died."

 _A shadow?_ This seemed familiar. Hadn't Brienne accused a shadow of killing Renly, before Loras had beheaded her? What in seven hells is going on here?

"Did the guards see anything strange? Someone entering the tent?" Garlan asked.

"No, Ser Garlan. They saw nothing out of the ordinary. They just heard Lord Mace screaming. When they went to check, they found him laying half dead on his bed. And then they called me."

A thousand thoughts ran through Loras's head. How could this happen? Did one of the guards kill his father? Or was it someone sent by Stannis? Maybe one of those Braavosi faceless assassin...

Loras felt like weeping. In such a short amount of time, he had lost his love and his father. He wanted to open his mouth and scream his pain for everybody to hear. He wanted to do something to bring them back.

But as he closed his eyes and hugged his brother, he knew he couldn't do that. He could only avenge them by finding their assassins and killing them.

 _Stannis, gods damn your soul to the deepest of the seven hells!_ He didn't know how, but Stannis had to be behind this too. Loras swore to torture him long and brutally before killing him.

After a while, he didn't know how, he pulled away from his brother. And as he made to say something, a terrifying scream came from the outside all of a sudden, soon followed by another one. Loras ran outside the tent, and his eyes widened in shock.

Stannis' army had arrived.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Melisandre**

She watched as Paxter Redwyne bowed in front of the Iron Throne. The Lord of the Arbor had just arrived accompanied by just a handful of men-at-arms, and that was the very first thing he had done. Melisandre smiled. Everything was going perfectly. Azor Ahai Reborn's victory was almost complete.

"Lord Redwyne." Stannis said, from atop the Iron Throne, his face grim as usual.

"Your Grace." Redwyne answered, his voice full of worry. "Is my son..."

"Your son is alive and well, Lord Redwyne, and is being treated according to his status." said Lord Alester Florent, current commander of Stannis' army. What was left of it, at least.

Lord Redwyne's face seemed to brighten a little, and Melisandre noticed the hint of a smile on his lips. No doubt he had feared for his son's life.

"Now, as for the reason of your being here. His Grace is willing to forgive you for your involvement in the war." Not that he has done much, she thought. Lord Paxter had ordered his ships to stop and lower the sails as soon as he had heard about his son. "Provided you will respect certain terms, of course."

At a nod from Lord Rewyne, Lord Florent continued. "These are the terms. You will pay a war reparation of fifty thousand golden dragons and an amount of food yet to be determined, to be distributed among the soldiers and the citizens of King's Landing. Your warships will be confiscated and integrated into the royal fleet. You will be allowed to keep all of your lands and titles, as long as you swear fealty to your rightful king." Florent continued.

Redwyne nodded. "Yes, yes, anything you want. As long as you return my son to me."

"That will not be possible. For the time being, Ser Horas will stay here in the capital as a guest of the crown. You will be allowed to see him before departing, and he will write to you once a week."

The Lord of the Arbor made to say something, but a glare from Stannis convinced him otherwise. After a moment of silence, he sighed and nodded. "Very well. I accept your terms, Your Grace."

Stannis nodded. Then, Redwyne bent a leg and lowered his head. "I, Paxter of House Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor and commander of the Redwyne Fleet, thereby swear eternal loyalty to King Stannis of House Baratheon..."

A few minutes later, Stannis allowed Lord Redwyne to leave. Then, it was the turn of the captured commanders from the defeated Tyrell host. Many of them were given the same choice: bend the knee, or face the king's justice. Some of them chose the former. Many more chose the latter. Chief among them, Loras Tyrell. In fact, he just refused to even think about the choice, instead filling the throne room's with screams and threats to Stannis' life.

"YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS, STANNIS! FOR RENLY, FOR MY FATHER AND MY BROTHER! I SWEAR BY THE SEVEN, YOU WILL..." The young man's voice slowly disappeared as he was dragged away by four guards. Melisandre shook her head at his outburst. _Foolish young man._ What was he hoping to accomplish?

Stannis frowned and cleared his throat. "Lord Florent, did you send those ravens I told you earlier?"

"I did, Your Grace."

"Good. Then, if there is nothing else, I will retire to my chambers." He looked around the room. "You are all dismissed."

People started leaving the hall, and Stannis rose from the throne. Melisandre looked at the bags under his eyes, and at the pale look of his skin. He looked half a corpse. Just like her. The magic she had used earlier had required a huge amount of energy, both from herself and Stannis. But it had been worth it.

She approached Stannis. "Have you need of me, my king?"

Stannis looked at her. "No."

"Do you want me to...keep you company for the night?" Laying with Stannis was the last thing on her mind right now, such was her tiredness. However, she had to take advantage of everything she could to tie him more to her.

"No." he said again. A part of her breathed a sigh of relief. She too needed to rest, after all.

Melisandre bowed and wished Stannis a good night, then retired. A servant led her to a room near the royal apartments, which until now had never been used as she had spent her nights with Stannis. This time, thought, she would spend the night in her own bed, with only her dreams and prayers to keep her company.

She waited until the servant closed the door, then closed her eyes and sighed. She felt so tired. She would have to wait long before she could use her magic again.

Melisandre undid her robe and let it fall on the floor. She walked until she reached the hearth, which was thankfully lit. She muttered a small prayer to R'hllor as she let the warmth of the flames caress her naked skin, then she turned. Near the bed was a small table, where someone had put a tray with a cup of what she assumed was wine and a plate with bread and some meat. She wasn't hungry, but she felt a little thirsty.

She took the cup and brought it to her lips. A small sip first. _It tastes good._ She drank the rest and put back the cup.

Then, as she approached the bed, Melisandre felt something strange in her belly. From there, it went throughout her entire body. She felt her legs weaken and starting to tremble.

 _What is this? What..._

She lost her balance and fell backward, hitting her head on the corner of the table.

 _Poison!_ Someone...someone had poisoned her wine. But who? With Cressen she had foreseen it, why hadn't it happened this time? Had it something to do with her being too tired?

She tried to scream and call for help, but only a small gasp escaped her lips as her body touched the stone floor.

 _R'hllor...my god, please help me! I can't die now!_

Her god didn't answer. As the world around her turned black, she felt her body slowly getting cold.

And then, she felt nothing more.

 _ **AN:**_ _Ding dong, the witch is dead!_

 _I hope my take on Mace doesn't come out as too OOC. From Olenna's words and his actions and words we always assume he's an oaf. But what if it's just an act? What if it's a move by Olenna and Mace to make others underestimate him? From this, I wrote Loras' POV. I hope you enjoyed it._


	23. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

 _"Why is it always the innocents who suffer most, when you high lords play your game of thrones?"_

 _ **-Varys**_

 **Tommen**

Myrcella took another rose with her free hand and smiled. "It's going to be a beautiful crown, Tommen. I will see to that."

Tommen just nodded, bored as he had never been before. Why did Myrcella have to waste time with flowers, of all things? Why couldn't she be interested in knights, or books at least? Flowers were the most boring thing ever! He didn't understand why his sister liked them so much. Maybe it was a girl thing. Margaery and her cousins loved them, and he remembered his own mother spending words of appreciation for a field of roses they had seen after their arrival at Highgarden. He shook his head at that. Girls were strange.

"Perhaps I could add another one or two..."

He moaned in annoyance. "Aren't those enough? Margaery won't be able to hold so many flowers on her head. Your crown is going to be too heavy."

"Flowers aren't heavy." She gave a look to the small basket she was carrying, now full to the brim with red roses. "You are right, however. These are enough. Let's go back."

Tommen smiled.

"But first, let me get some more roses. For myself, this time."

His smile disappeared as soon as it had come. He glanced at the two kingsguards escorting them, looking for some kind of support. Ser Balon said nothing, while Ser Arys merely shrugged. He groaned, promising himself to force Myrcella to attend a tourney as soon as he had the chance.

"All right, brother. We can go."

Tommen breathed a sigh of relief. The ordeal was over. Now he could go back to his chambers and read those books he had borrowed from the library of Highgarden. He would spend the next few hours doing something he actually liked. And he would join the rest of the castle only for dinner.

"Margaery is going to love this." Myrcella said dreamily as they walked, the white knights trailing in their wake. "She is going to be the most beautiful bride ever."

"More than Mother?" Tommen had oft heard that, on the day of her wedding to their father, Cersei Lannister had been the most beautiful bride of the Seven Kingdoms.

Myrcella looked at him as if he had said something stupid. "Mother is Mother. Margaery is Margaery." she just said. Tommen supposed this would have to suffice as an explanation.

"Do you think Joff will like it?" he asked. His brother seemed to get along with Margaery and her kin, but Tommen couldn't tell whether he would appreciate a crown of roses or not.

His sister shrugged. "Who cares? As long as Margaery likes it, all will be well. I am doing this for her, not for Joff." Margaery had been most kind to them, since their arrival. Tommen liked her a lot. She had read him stories about the Gardner kings of old, had accompanied him and Myrcella on a tour of the castle, and had shown him her cats. He liked cats, too. Maybe, if one of them ended up having kittens, Margaery would give him one. He smiled at the thought. He would have to keep the cat away from Joffrey, though. His brother didn't like animals that much.

They returned to the castle a few minutes later. Tommen did as he had promised himself, and as the hours went by he immersed himself in reading about ancient knights and their deeds. Then, just when the sun had begun its slow descent, he had the books returned to the library, and went to the great hall for dinner.

He sat near Myrcella and his mother, while Joffrey was at the head of the table with Margaery at his right and Willas and Lady Olenna on the left. The only other people in the room were the four Kingsguard knights who had escorted the royal family, the servants, and a bard. Tommen hoped there wouldn't be sad love song, like the ones Myrcella liked.

Willas made a toast to Joffrey and Margaery, and the dinner began. To Tommen's dismay, the very first song the bard played was "Florian and Jonquil". He disliked that song as much as flowers. However, Myrcella loved it, and as soon as the music started she squealed in delight. His mother and Joffrey just drank and politely smiled at their hosts.

Everybody seemed to be in a good mood, that evening. Joffrey laughed at a joke Willas made, his mother favourably commented the dishes being served. Even the kingsguards partook in their happiness, drinking a few more wine than usual and making toasts to Joffrey.

Then, an indefinite amount of time later, the bard started playing "The Rains of Castamere". Tommen was ambivalent about that song. On the one hand, it was a celebration of his grandfather's deeds. However, it was also so...grim. Perhaps he could ask the bard to play something happy. He had to ask Willas first, though.

Just when he was about to speak, something happened. The music stopped. A handful of Tyrell men-at-arms entered the room and attacked the kingsguards. His mother screamed as the white knights were killed, barely putting up a defense such was the suddenness of the attack and their drunken state. Tommen felt Myrcella reaching for him. He held his sister's hand as tightly as he could as the carnage unfolded right in front of them.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Joffrey shouted indignantly. "Why are you killing my kingsguards?"

Nobody answered. Tommen looked at Margaery, but she averted his gaze.

"Tommen, what is happening?" Myrcella whispered fearfully.

"I don't know." He said, looking from his mother to Joffrey. Why were they doing this?

His mother rose to her feet angrily. "Lady Tyrell, what are you..."

"Seize them and lock them into their rooms." Lady Olenna said coldly.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Olenna**

"...you have a fortnight to consider my offer. If, by the end of the last day, no raven should come, I will consider it an act of defiance and answer accordingly. Think carefully. Done in the sight of gods and men, under the sign and seal of Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

She took a deep breath as Willas finished reading the letter for the second time. Once again, the old saying about ravens and what they carried had been proven true. Dark wings, dark words.

The host they had sent at King's Landing had been defeated. Mace and Garlan were dead, and Loras had been imprisoned.

 _Mace...oh gods, Mace..._

She had always expected she would die way before any of her children. That was how things usually went. A parent died, of old age or in battle or for any other reason, and was soon replaced by the younger generation. Having the opposite happen...it wasn't unusual, but it wasn't that natural, either. Parents shouldn't survive their offspring.

Her grandson folded the parchment and looked at her. "What if...what if it's all a lie, Grandmother?"

She shook her head. "If Stannis had survived a defeat, he would have fled back to Dragonstone, and by now he would be somewhere else. The Vale, maybe, or the North." She wished that was the truth. Alas, as much as she hated to admit it, it wasn't. "And your father would have sent a raven. No, Willas, it's all true."

Willas looked as if he had seen the Stranger Himself. "Gods...Father and Garlan." He put a hand on the table, and she noticed it trembling. "Mother and Margaery will be devastated. Leonette, too." He, too, was devastated by the news, though he didn't say it openly. She knew her grandson well.

As for herself, losing her only son was by no means a good news. She loved Mace, in her own way. She had never been one to openly show her affection for her children, instead choosing to let her actions speak for her. She had always given Mace and his sisters practical advice, trying to make them able to play and survive the game of thrones, encouraging their intelligence and curiosity. In a world like the one they all lived in, stupid people didn't live long.

She could consider herself satisfied, on that front. Her children had more or less grown up to be as she had hoped. Even Mace. Sure, he had had his flaws, like anybody else, and he had never been as intelligent or interested in learning as Willas. But never once she had actually thought of him as an oaf, unlike with her husband. Other people would think otherwise, given what she oft said about Mace. They couldn't be more wrong. Her remarks were just a way to have people underestimate her son. That strategy had always worked splendidly.

Now, though...now Mace was dead. And all she had left of him were memories.

"Grandmother?"

She interrupted her trail of thoughts. "Yes, Willas?"

"I said...what do we do now?"

Olenna steeled her heart. She couldn't let her grief overcome her. She had to be strong for her grandson and her remaining kin. "For now, we will just wait. So far there have been no news from the west, though I think there must have been at least a battle by now. We will wait, and if a raven comes with good news, we will keep on fighting."

Willas nodded. "And...what if Lord Tarly and Lord Tywin are defeated? What would we do, then?"

She took a moment to think on that. That would be the most terrible outcome for House Tyrell. She dearly hoped it wouldn't happen, though she had to be realistic. "Well...in that case, Willas, our only choice will be to surrender and hand the royal family over to Stannis."

 **XXXXXX**

 **Davos**

Genna Frey, nee Lannister, was the fattest woman Davos had ever seen. The black dress she wore seemed to barely be able to hold her massive body, and he could almost swear he could feel the ground shake with each step she took. She had to be at least a decade older that him, and the gold of her hair was plainly fading. However, her face still bore traces of an ancient beauty. He tried to imagine what she had looked like in her younger years. She couldn't always have been like this, could she? He supposed she had been thin, once. Maybe an unhappy marriage had forced her to find comfort in food. If that was the case, he couldn't help but feel sorry for her. And once again, he thanked the gods for the good marriage he and Marya had.

"Lady Genna, well met." he said.

She didn't answer him, instead giving the four men in the room a cold stare. Her eyes set on the one on Davos' right. "Ser Brynden...it's been years since the last time we met. And I see that time has been most unkind to you."

"My lady." the Blackfish greeted her. "I regret having to meet again under such circumstances. However, there is no need to insult..."

"Well, forgive me if I am not too kind to the ones who killed my brother."

Davos cleared his throat. "My lady, after the battle Lord Tywin was found laying on the ground with an arrow in his head. Nobody knows who actually killed him. It could have been even a Lannister archer who missed his real target."

She turned to Davos. "You must be the Onion Knight."

"I am Lord Davos of House Seaworth, yes. Hand to..."

"Yes, yes, I know what you are. And I couldn't care less." she said dismissively. "And you are..." she said looking at the other two men sitting near Davos and Ser Brynden.

"Lord Jon of House Umber. I am here on behalf of Lord Stark." answered the huge northman.

"Lord Yohn of House Royce, commander of the Vale host." said the Lord of Runestone.

Lady Genna turned to the guards escorting her. "You can wait outside. I am sure these fine lords..." Davos noticed the venom in her voice. "...mean me no harm."

The guards left the room, and Lady Genna sat. "Now, then. I hate wasting time, so let's go straight to the point."

"Very well." Davos tried to sound as authoritative as he could. "In the name of King Stannis of House Baratheon, we will now begin negotiating the surrender of House Lannister..."

Davos almost couldn't believe his own words. Here he was, a former smuggler turned Hand of the King, taking care of the surrender of one of the Great Houses of Westeros. A small part of him wondered if that was really happening. What am I doing here? A man of Flea Bottom, among men and women of blood as ancient as the world. He felt a little out of place. He banished those thoughts as soon as they came. He couldn't allow himself any weakness or doubt. He had to be strong and fulfill the duty Stannis had given him, as long as it was necessary. He steeled himself as he kept on speaking.

The whole affair lasted well until sunset. Lady Genna was good with words and had a strong personality. Davos supposed he had to expect that from Tywin Lannister's sister. Then, finally, Lady Genna formally signed the surrender and left soon after it.

"What a woman." said Smalljon Umber. "If she was younger, and I didn't already have someone in mind, I would consider marrying her!"

"Then you would have to stand her every single day of your life." said the Blackfish. "I don't know about you, my lords, but I don't think there is a worse punishment. I pity her husband."

"We should pity her, too. Her husband is a Frey." Davos said, and they all shared a laugh at that.

That served to ease the tension. However, Davos reminded himself that the war wasn't fully over yet. They may have defeated the Old Lion and Lord Tarly, but they still had to take care of the ironborn. And they hadn't heard from Stannis in a while. He hoped the king was alive and well. And most importantly, he hoped he had won his side of the war.

Anyway, that didn't mean they couldn't celebrate. The troops camped outside Lannisport were in dire need of relief after months and months of fighting. Davos and the other commanders allowed them to drink and eat as much as they wanted, though they forbade any plundering raids into the city. There were some grumblings, but thankfully no incidents. They all took advantage of that moment to relax. Davos watched as Ser Brynden won an arm wrestling match with the Tattered Prince, and later accepted Lord Umber's challenge of a drinking contest. He lost, but he didn't mind. He was enjoying himself, for once not thinking of battles.

The next morning, he awoke with a monstrous headache.

He groaned as he rolled off his bed. He had drunk way too much wine. Now he understood why Stannis drank just lemon water. For a moment he considered going back to sleep, but there were too many things that needed his attention. He promised himself to never accept another challenge that involved drinking.

He stepped out of his tent, shielding his eyes against the morning light. He looked around. Only a few soldiers were awake. Them, and the Blackfish. The riverman noticed Davos, and waved at him.

"How did you sleep, Ser Brynden?" Davos asked him later.

"Not well. Too much wine, I am afraid."

"Same here. I wonder how is Lord Umber." The northman had drunk as much as them, if not more.

"That man has wine in his veins, I tell you." He shook his head. "We should leave such things to younger men. We are too old."

Davos couldn't agree more. "I am of a mind to drink only water, from now on."

Ser Brynden made to reply, and then he heard someone calling him. "Now, what..."

A Tully soldier was running toward him, holding a parchment in his hand. He bowed as soon as he arrived near them. "M'Lord Hand, Ser Brynden...a raven just arrived with this from Ashemark."

 _Ashemark?_ "What is it, soldier?"

"I don't know, m'lord. I thought it was something important, so I brought it to you as soon as the raven came."

Ser Brynden nodded. "You did well."

The soldier handed the parchment over to the Blackfish, then left. Ser Brynden opened it. "It's from the maester..." he said as he started reading. Then, suddenly..."NO!"

"Ser Brynden, what..."

The riverman's face had become as pale as his hair. He looked at Davos with horrified eyes. "Robb...Robb is dead!"

 _ **AN:**_ _In case it wasn't obvious, these POVs aren't in chronological order._

 _As with Mace, I hope my take on Olenna doesn't seem too OOC. And as for the Blackfish having already met Genna, that's just a little headcanon of mine that was added at the very last minute. And please, don't hate me for killing Robb._

 _I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Only three left!_


	24. Interlude

**Interlude**

 _"We had one king, then five. Now all I see are crows, squabbling over the corpse of Westeros."_

 _ **-Rodrik Harlaw**_

 **Taken from "The greatest conflicts in Westerosi history, volume 3: The War of the Four Kings", by Noho Erastes, Braavosi scholar**

The War of the Four Kings is a conflict fought between the years 298 and 299 of the Westerosi calendar (which would be the 412th and 413th year from the Doom of Valyria). It owes its name to the number of claimants whose hosts clashed in that time period: Joffrey Baratheon (or Waters, which would be his correct name given his bastard birth), his uncles Renly Baratheon (then Lord of the Stormlands) and Stannis Baratheon (then Lord of Dragonstone), and Balon Greyjoy (then Lord of the Iron Islands). As of today, this war is still remembered as one of the bloodiest ever fought on Westerosi soil...

...According to some native sources, the name "War of the Four Kings" is incorrect. One of the claimants, Renly Baratheon, was killed just before Balon Greyjoy was crowned, so technically there never were four kings all at once. However, it is the name by which the conflict is usually addressed, and therefore the one which shall be used in this volume.

The actual start of the conflict isn't certain. Some sources date it to when Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, then Hand to King Robert Baratheon, was arrested on false charges of treason. Others look to Tyrion Lannister's kidnapping by Lady Catelyn Stark, which led to an invasion of the Riverlands by House Lannister's forces. The most reliable hypothesis, is the one which sees the war as a result of different matters and tensions which had been brewing in the Seven Kingdoms for a while.

Despite these uncertainties, the end of the war is something all the sources agree on. After the surrender of Houses Lannister and Tyrell, the War of the Four Kings truly came to an end only when the forces loyal to King Stannis Baratheon brought to heel the people of the Iron Islands...

 **XXXXXX**

 **Taken from "The fall of the Ironborn", by Maester Samwell of the Night's Watch**

...Their defeats can be considered a perfect example of overconfidence.

In the past, the so called "Old Way" had worked for the ironmen because they had to face a divided Westeros.

As anybody knows, squabbles between lords great and small lead to a troubled land and, in many cases, to armed confrontations. However, this is something of a relatively small scale when compared to larger political entities. When there is no peace among neighboring kingdoms, they inevitably fall prey to invading foreigners. This has been proven true many a time over the centuries, and not just with the ironborn. If Aegon the Conqueror had faced all the monarchs of Westeros at once, today's world would be quite different.

The ironmen took advantage of said division to pillage and plunder the lands facing the Sunset Sea, going as far as to conquer the Riverlands under the reign of King Harwyn Hardhand of House Hoare. Then, the Targaryens came, and the Hoares learned at their own expense that even iron and stone must give in to dragonfire...

...When Balon Greyjoy was crowned King of the Iron Islands, the War of the Four Kings was ravaging the south of the continent. With three claimants fighting for the Iron Throne and soldiers dying by the score every day, it must have seemed to him that the time was right for a return to the old days of ironborn glory. Perhaps he can be forgiven for thinking so: after all, nobody can predict the future, although some priests and warlocks from Essos would probably beg to differ. And indeed, if all the claimants had died, the ironborn would have been the true winners of the war. However, as we all know, the results were quite different than what the ironborn expected...

...Although the ironborn had always been fierce warriors, their true strength lay in the Iron Fleet. At its peak, it consisted of more than one hundred warships, each with its crew of warrior sailors and long range weapons aptly made for naval warfare. It was with this fleet that the ironmen began their invasion of the North, attacking almost simultaneously Moat Cailin, the Stony Shore and Deepwood Motte. While the warriors fought on land, the warships waited in the Fever River. For those not well versed in northern geography and history, the Fever River lays near the swamps of the Neck (inhabited by the crannogmen, who are sworn to House Reed, a loyal bannermen to the Starks of Winterfell) and the lands belonging to Houses Ryswell and Dustin (two of the oldest and strongest of the northern houses). And it was these two houses that, with the help of the crannogmen and a huge dose of luck, somehow managed to drive away the Iron Fleet...

...When finally the combined forces of the North, the Riverlands and the Vale met the ironborn in battle, it is said that the harsh terrain of the Iron Islands was turned to mud by all the sweat and blood that was shed that day. Hundreds and hundreds of warriors died on both sides, and it was only thanks to the men of the Windblown sellsword company that victory was achieved that day. Balon Greyjoy was put in chains, while his goodbrother Lord Rodrik Harlaw signed the surrender. Lord Harlaw would then follow the victors to King's Landing as ambassador of the Iron Islands, mostly out of concern for his niece, as he later reported. He arrived just in time to join the post-war council called by King Stannis Baratheon, which would see the end of not just House Greyjoy's rule on the Iron Islands...

 **XXXXXX**

 **Taken from "The World of Ice and Fire", by Maester Yandel of the Citadel**

 _(This book was written at first as a gift by the author to Princess Shireen Baratheon. Although he never openly said so, Maester Yandel probably wanted to curry favor with the new king through his daughter. The writing began after the Greyjoy Rebellion of 289 AC, and was hurriedly completed after the War of the Four Kings. Sometimes filled with a pro-Baratheon view of certain events, and although the author never managed to deliver it to the princess, the tome is still a useful source for those wishing to educate themselves on Westerosi geography and general history)_

 _To our most esteemed and gracious lady,_

 _Princess Shireen of House Baratheon,_

 _Yandel, humble Maester of the Citadel,_

 _wishes thousandfold prosperity,_

 _now and forever, and wisdom unmatched._

 **The aftermath of the War of the Four Kings: The Council of King's Landing**

...Despite some negotiations having already taken place, after the defeat of Houses Lannister and Tyrell King Stannis saw fit to call a great council in order to settle once and for all the state of things. One by one, delegates from all the Seven Kingdoms came to the capital, with Lord Rodrik Harlaw being the last.

...Amidst angry calls for capital punishment and a few cries for mercy, King Stannis wisely chose the middle path. The executions were just a handful, something which once again shows the King's justness. The usurper Joffrey Waters and his mother, Petyr Baelish, Balon Greyjoy, and a few others who actively defied their rightful king and fought against his loyal subjects, would meet the royal executioner's blade and be sent to their final judgment in front of the Father Above. Many more would be allowed to take the black, or even to join the Faith or the Citadel...

...For their role in the war, Houses Lannister and Tyrell, and later House Greyjoy too, were made to pay heavy reparations, both in lands and gold. Not only that, they were stripped of their holdings and titles (the only exception being Lord Willas Tyrell, who was allowed to keep just Highgarden and a small part of the surrounding lands, becoming then a mere bannerman of the new Lord Paramount of the Reach), which were given to loyal subjects of the King, although the dynastic continuity would somehow be kept by the marriages that took place soon after the council.

...As for the warships formerly belonging to the Iron Fleet and House Redwyne, they were officially incorporated into the Royal Fleet, which was then put under the command of Lord Monford Velaryon, the new Master of Ships...

...Eventually, justice came for Lord Tarth, too. However, when the royal envoy came to arrest him, he found out that Lord Selwyn had already died a few days earlier. According to his maester, it was a combination of old age and a broken heart. Having no direct heir, his lands and titles went to a distant cousin from House Wensington.

...When finally his time came to be judged, the Kingslayer stood arrogantly in front of the King. Despite the long time spent in Riverrun's dungeons and the lack of his sword arm, Ser Jaime never once lost the typical Lannister arrogance. To the surprise of everyone in the throne room, he confirmed all the charges laid against him. Except for two. The murder of Jon Arryn, and the attempt on Brandon Stark's life, both by his late brother Tyrion. He vehemently denied the accusations, even going as far as demanding a trial by combat to prove his brother's innocence. King Stannis mercifully accepted his request, then choosing Ser Richard Horpe, who just a few hours earlier had been named Lord Commander of the new Kingsguard, as his champion...

 **XXXXXX**

 **Taken from "Songs of the Sunset Lands", by Jaqen Wunel, Pentoshi scholar**

The song "When the lion falls" was created by a bard whose name has been lost to history, sometime after Ser Jaime Lannister's death in the duel against Ser Richard Horpe. The song became widely popular in the Westerlands, especially among those few, scattered groups of soldiers turned outlaws who still supported the Lannister cause. Unfortunately, only a few fragments remain of this song...

 _Down in the Keep,_

 _Where the dragons used to sleep._

 _Glorious knights,_

 _Veterans of countless fights._

 _That day they crossed blades,_

 _Under the eyes of men and maids,_

 _When the lion falls._

 _When the lion falls,_

 _His roar echoes through the halls._

 _When the lion dies,_

 _You can hear the gods' cries._

 _When the lion falls,_

 _When the lion falls!_

 _Of steel and bravery,_

 _Was the heart of the lion._

 _With just one arm,_

 _He met his foe in single combat._

 _Sweaty was his brow,_

 _And great was his roar._

 _But the lion fought!_

 _When the lion falls,_

 _His roar echoes through the halls._

 _When the lion dies,_

 _You can hear the gods' cries._

 _When the lion falls,_

 _When the lion falls!_

 _ **(AN:**_ _Lyrics and title shamelessly stolen and adapted from "When the hammer falls", by Clamavi De Profundis)_


	25. Chapter 23 and Appendix

**Chapter 23**

 _"On the Wall, a man gets only what he earns."_

 _ **-Benjen Stark**_

 **Brynden**

He had always complained about Hoster being stubborn. To be fair, it was a trait shared by the entire family. Brynden, too, could be quite stubborn when he wanted.

However, that didn't mean he had to like it when others kept on insisting.

"Please, Catelyn. Why do you have to be so insistent?"

"I could ask the same of you, Uncle."

His niece had been engaging him in a battle of wills for what felt like an eternity. And Brynden dearly wished she would stop. He could already feel an headache forming in the back of his head. It wasn't a pleasant sensation, to say the least, what with the random pain that still tormented his leg from time to time and his back hurting like hells whenever he tried to bend.

 _I am getting too old for this._

"Look, you could still stay in Winterfell. I would administer Riverrun in your name, and you would have to come here just once or twice a year..."

"Uncle, I already told you I can't. My...my children need me!" She said those words with a voice that was both sorrowful and determined. Brynden could only imagine how Catelyn felt, having lost two of her sons. "I have to form a regency council for Rickon, and just finding the right people will take most of my time and energy. And my children need me more than ever. Sansa, especially. She has been through a lot. I...I don't even want to imagine what she endured while she...while she was that monster's prisoner!" He supposed she was talking about Joffrey. If even half of what he had heard about him was true, then he deserved to rot in the deepest of the seven hells.

"And I have to look for Bran, too. He has to be somewhere. He...he can't be..." She started sobbing, and wiped a tear from her eye. "He has to be somewhere."

Brynden wondered what in seven hells had happened to Catelyn's son. From what she had told him, he didn't seem the kind of boy that would run from home on a whim. Not that he could walk, let alone run. Something must have happened to lead him and those two other children out of Winterfell. But what? If they had been kidnapped, they would have received a ransom request, by now. Maybe they had managed to escape their captors? If yes, where they hiding somewhere waiting for the right time to come back to Winterfell? Or perhaps...something terrible had happened, and they wouldn't be returning. He fervently hoped that wasn't the case. Catelyn couldn't handle that.

"Besides, the riverlords would hardly accept me or any of my offspring. Did you know that some of them are blaming me for the war?"

 _Wait, what?_ "What do you mean? And who is it that accused you?"

"I learned it from one of Arya's friends. He heard some lordling say that if I hadn't kidnapped Tyrion Lannister, then the whole war could have been avoided."

Brynden felt a burning rage rising through him. "What kind of ignorant buffoon would say that? The whole thing started the moment when the Lannisters believed themselves above everybody else! When they murdered Jon Arryn and your husband! Just tell me the name of these snakes, and I will have them hanged!"

"I don't know who it is. And anyway, it's just a rumor."

"Rumors can be dangerous..."

"It doesn't matter." she cut him off. "I can't be the lady of this castle. You, on the other hand, would be perfect. The riverlords would be more willing to follow someone who fought and bled with them."

Brynden snorted. "I could be the lord, yes. But I would need to a wife. And I am too old to have children of my own. Yours could still be my heirs."

"Walder Frey sired children when he was older than you. And he has many daughters and granddaughters of the right age still unwed."

He moaned in disgust. Some of Lord Walder's female offspring were said to look like him. And in any case, he wanted nothing to do with his lot, no more than what was strictly necessary. "The old weasel already has your boy and one of your girls. Why should he have me, too?"

"Someone else, then. Lord Bracken has four daughters, none of them betrothed. This would tie us closer to one of our strongest bannermen."

Brynden cursed to himself. Catelyn's arguments were flawless, but...he couldn't tell her the truth. He couldn't tell her why he didn't want to marry. Why he never had.

"Look, Catelyn..."

"OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" she yelled in exasperation, startling Brynden. He had never heard her curse like that. In fact, he didn't even know she used such a language.

Catelyn regained her composure. "Sorry." She looked at him in embarrassment. "Uncle Brynden, please...I know that you never wanted to marry. I won't ask why, but...if you don't want to do it for our family, could you at least do it for me?"

Silence fell on the two of them. Brynden made to reply, but couldn't find the words. Their eyes met. And for a moment, Catelyn's face was replaced by someone else's. Someone whose memory still made Brynden's heart ache.

 _Minisa..._

"Please, Uncle Brynden. I need your help." Catelyn's pleading voice destroyed the last of his defenses. He sighed, and for once in his life, let go of his own stubbornness.

"Fine. I will send a raven to Stone Hedge on the morrow."

 **XXXXXX**

 **Sandor**

The little bird looked at him with eyes on the verge of tears. "Do you really have to go?"

He nodded. "Aye. There's no going back from this."

Her sister grunted. "Would you please stop being so melodramatic?"

Sandor glared at Arya Stark. From what he remembered from his visit to Winterfell, and what Sansa had told him, she had always been an insufferable little brat. And her time with Dondarrion's lot had only worsened that. If he didn't know for certain, he would never tell that the two of them were sisters.

"You don't have to stay here, you know." he said.

"I am not leaving my sister alone with you!"

"Arya..." the little bird said. "please."

The younger Stark sister glared at them both and crossed her arms. "I don't trust him."

"Do you think I give a fuck about what you think of me?"

"Sandor, Arya...please, stop." Sansa said. "Arya, I know that you don't like Sandor, and that he has done a lot of bad things. But deep down, he is a good man. And remember that I wouldn't be here, if he hadn't helped me."

Arya Stark silently looked at her sister, first, then at Sandor. Her eyes narrowed. "One day, I will come for you." she said menacingly.

Sandor snickered. "I look forward to that." With that, Arya Stark gave him one last venomous glare and left.

"I am sorry." Sansa whispered. "She can be...difficult do deal with, at times."

"Don't apologize for her, little bird." If he had had to do the same for everything Gregor had done, he would never stop. "It's not your fault. Besides, she has reason to hate me. I killed her little friend." He didn't even remember the boy's name, or what he had looked like.

Sansa Stark shivered. "Can we...can we please not talk about that?" Sandor nodded understandingly. To him, that episode was nothing special. However, to her it would be forever related to some unpleasant memories about Joffrey and her dead direwolf. He tried to remember how much time had passed since then. It had to be around a year, though it seemed like a lifetime ago.

She cleared her throat. "So..."

"So?"

She seemed to struggle to find the right words. "Why?" she finally said.

He understood what she meant. "Well...what else could I do?"

Sandor had thought a lot about that. With the war finally over, he didn't have many options left. Going back to his family's holdings was out of the question. That place held too many bad memories for him. He could have stayed with the little bird as her sworn shield, but that would have led to troubles with her mother and sister. He could have become a sellsword, but...well, if he had to be honest with himself, he was growing tired of fighting for rich assholes. And sooner or later, someone in the new royal court would remember about him.

That left only one thing...

"The Wall is a harsh place. My uncle Benjen told me stories about it." she said.

"I know. But it's the only place where I could go. And it can't be worse that what I went through so far." he answered. "Look, it's not like you won't see me again. You said the Watch sends its men to castles for supplies and men, right?" She nodded. "There. As soon as they send someone to Winterfell, I will volunteer."

For a moment she just stared at Sandor. Then she hugged him, and started crying. "I will miss you, Sandor." she sobbed against his chest.

He put his arms around her. "I will miss you too, little bird." Sandor felt his heart warming as he said those words. He closed his eyes and an image of Alienor flashed into his mind.

She was smiling.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Kevan**

His wife's face was like a ray of sunshine after a rainy day. He hadn't seen her since before the start of the war. Others may have called her plain-faced, but to Kevan, she was and would always be the most beautiful woman in the world.

She waited until the guards closed the door of the cell, then she ran to Kevan and hugged him. "Kevan..." He wasn't in a good shape, and his own smell made him gag. However, she didn't seem to mind it.

"My love." he whispered. "I missed you." The thought of seeing her again had been his constant companion ever since his arrival in King's Landing, the only thing that had kept his heart warm in the darkness of the black cells. A more than welcome surprise, too. When Genna had come to visit him earlier, she hadn't mentioned it. He savoured that hug with every fiber of his being.

"How is Janei?" he asked her later. In a few months, his daughter would see her fourth nameday. And sadly, he wouldn't be there to celebrate it.

"She is fine. I left her with Septa Marya before coming here. She...she asked about you." she said. "I told her that...that you would be leaving for a while."

Kevan nodded. "Don't tell her the truth until she is a little older."

Dorna sobbed. "Oh, Kevan...why did this have to happen? I prayed the gods every single day..."

"Well, looks like they had other plans." Kevan had never put too much faith in the Seven. He was a practical man. "What happened can't be changed."

After a moment, she said: "Genna asked me to come with her. She plans to stay with her goodfamily for a while."

"Good. Go with her. You and Janei will be safe at the Twins." He had never liked the Freys, but he supposed he now had to be grateful to them. Being "loyal subjects" of the new king had allowed them a certain degree of power that had been exercised through Genna. Tytos Lannister's choice of a husband for his only daughter didn't look so foolish, now.

She looked at him. "This...what happened to you wasn't right! You are a good man, you didn't deserve this!"

"We have been defeated, my love. The losers always have to pay." After the initial rage, he had come to quietly accept his situation. There was nothing that could change that. It was too late. The only thing he could do, was showing everybody else how a Lannister met his fate. Proudly, and with his head held high.

He hugged Dorna again, trying to comfort her. "It's going to be all right. I know you will raise Janei as a proper lady. Just make sure that, when she comes of age, she marries a good man." His wife nodded, sobbing, and Kevan kissed her. The kiss was the best they had ever shared, and it seemed to last for a lifetime.

However, after a while the guards came to interrupt them. Dorna left, tears in her eyes, and Kevan found himself alone in his cell once again. He sat on the dust covered floor, leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes. He hoped he would get a good night's sleep. He needed it. Tomorrow, he would leave the realm, forever.

The ship for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea left at the first light of dawn. It was full of men, some of whom Kevan had known personally. We are the damned, he thought. The lucky ones died in battle. He recalled everything that had happened in the last year. He had no regrets. He only wished he had had more time.

His sons were on the ship with him. Tommen, too. Kevan swore to himself to watch them as closely as possible. Even in defeat, he could still do his best to protect his kin. He would make sure no harm came to them. And if he died in doing that...well, it was the best death he could hope for.

He looked at the horizon, where the shape of King's Landing was becoming smaller and smaller. That city was the only thing that he wouldn't miss.

"Farewell." he said, as the ship sailed northward.

 **APPENDIX: THE REALM ONE MONTH AFTER THE WAR OF THE FOUR KINGS**

 **THE ROYAL FAMILY**

 _King Stannis of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm; Queen Selyse Florent; Shireen Baratheon, Princess of Dragonstone; Edric Storm, royal ward; Devan Seaworth, the King's squire_

 **THE SMALL COUNCIL**

 _Lord Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King; Lord Monford Velaryon, Master of Ships; Lord Roose Bolton, Master of Whispers (married to Fair Walda Frey); Lord Tytos Blackwood, Master of Laws; Lord Gerold Grafton, Master of Coin; Ser Richard Horpe, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; Ser Imry Florent, Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing; Grandmaester Gormon_

 **THE NORTH**

 _Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North (betrothed to Perra Frey); Sansa Stark, his sister; Arya Stark, his other sister (betrothed to Elmar Frey, though she isn't too happy about it); Shaggydog and Nymeria (who rejoined Arya some time after the latter escaped from Harrenhal), two direwolves_

 _Lord Rickon's regency council: Lady Catelyn Stark, Ser Rodrik Cassel (married to Jonelle Cerwyn), Lord Daryn Hornwood (betrothed to Alys Karstark), Lord Cley Cerwin (married to Fat Walda Frey), Lord Rodrik Ryswell, Lord Smalljon Umber (married to Dacey Mormont), Ser Wendel Manderly, Lord Eddard Karstark (married to Roslin Frey), Lord Howland Reed, Lord Robett Glover_

 **THE RIVERLANDS**

 _Brynden Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands (married to Jayne Bracken); Maester Vyman; Gendry Waters and Hot Pie (who joined the household of Riverrun just before the end of the war, thanks to Arya Stark); Genna Frey and her family; Dorna Lannister and her daughter Janei_

 **THE VALE**

 _Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East; Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone and Regent of the Vale until Robert comes of age; Harrold Hardyng, Robert's heir should he die without issue (betrothed to Myranda Royce); Lysa Arryn (currently in a sept at Gulltown, under close surveillance)_

 **THE WESTERLANDS**

 _Andrew Estermont, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West (married to Cerenna Lannister)_

 **THE REACH**

 _Alester Florent, Lord of Brightwater Keep, Lord Paramount of the Mander and Warden of the South; Alekyne Florent, his son and heir (married to Margaery Tyrell); Myrcella Waters (currently at Oldtown with the Silent Sisters)_

 **THE STORMLANDS**

 _Currently a royal fief under the joint administration of Lords Rolland Caron (nee Storm), Eldon Estermont, and Omer Blackberry; Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven (married to Allyria Dayne)_

 **THE IRON ISLANDS**

 _Justin Massey, Lord of Pyke and Lord of the Iron Islands (married to Asha Greyjoy); Lord Tristifer Botley (who, as of late, has been getting very close to his old childhood friend)_

 **DORNE**

 _Doran Martell, Lord of Sunspear and Prince of Dorne; Arianne Martell, his daughter and heir; Quentyn Martell, his son; Trystane Martell, his other son; Oberyn Martell, his brother_

 **THE WALL**

 _Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch (currently leading a mission beyond the Wall); Jon Snow, Lord Mormont's steward; Ser Cortnay Penrose; Sandor Clegane; Ser Kevan Lannister and his sons Lancel, Martyn and Willem; Tommen Waters; Ser Loras Tyrell (who has already managed to annoy everyone at Castle Black)_

 _ **AN:**_ _Let me guess. You thought I was going to kill Kevan. Well, that was my plan, at first. The original version of his last POV ended with him beheaded. And just then, I though "Wait, I can't kill him". I have to admit it, I've grown fond of Kevan. So, I decided to spare him._

 _I don't know why the Blackfish never married (and it's likely that nobody aside from GRRM will ever). What you saw in this chapter was just my headcanon. As for Sandor, I hope he doesn't seem too OOC._

 _See you in two weeks with the epilogue, folks!_


	26. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 _"Valar morghulis (All men must die)."_

 _ **-Customary Essosi saying**_

 **Stannis**

"...if there is nothing else that His Grace wants to discuss..." He silently shook his head. "Very well. My lords, we are done for today. You can leave." One by one, the other members of the Small Council bowed and left the room. Davos waited for the door to close, then breathed a sigh of relief.

"I thought it would never end." he said.

Stannis nodded his assent. The meetings of the Small Council had always been long and tedious affairs, but he was used to it. Davos wasn't, yet.

"Over time, you will get used to it. You will learn to filter the useless chattering and grasp the real meaning of their words." Stannis said. "And remember what I told you the day of the first meeting: never trust those who talk too much."

"What of the silent ones, then? Lord Bolton always utters just a few words." Davos said. "And to be honest, Your Grace, that man gives me a strange feeling."

He thought of the quiet northman, with his strange eyes, pale skin and soft voice. Stannis didn't know yet what to make of him. If the northmen had sent him as their representative in the Small Council, he had to be trustworthy. Or maybe they just wanted to get rid of a possibly dangerous element. Either way, so far the Lord of the Dreadfort had given him no sign of disloyalty. However, being careful wouldn't hurt.

"Then keep your eyes always open, and trust only those close to you."

Davos nodded, then yawned. "If you have no more need of me, Your Grace, I would leave. I promised Dale I would go visit him as soon as I could."

"Dale is the married one, right?"

"Exactly. His wife had a visit with a maester scheduled for later today. They have been trying to have a son for a while, and...well, he thinks they succeeded." He smiled. "Gods willing, me and Marya are going to be grandparents soon."

Stannis wished Davos and his family all the best this world had to offer. They were good and honest people, more than many of the lords he knew. "Send your family my regards."

After Davos had left, Stannis sat alone for a while. Davos' words had made him think of his own family, and his attempts to enlarge it. Since the end of the war, he had resolved to do his duty as a husband more often than twice a year. He needed a son. He couldn't count on Shireen's husband, whoever he would be and whenever he would come, and legitimizing Edric was out of the question, at least for now. The Baratheon line had to be secured.

It wasn't an easy task, to say the least. The experience with Melisandre had showed him how laying with a woman could be different from the cold, hurried couplings that his marital bed had always seen. How it could be...well, pleasant. More than once he had found himself thinking of the red woman's luscious body to make things easier. It wasn't something he was proud of. He didn't like reminding himself of his moment of weakness. He hoped that, at least, this way Selyse would finally give him the heir he needed.

Stannis rose from his seat, sullenly and silently. He had never openly said so, nor would he, but he envied Davos for the happy family he had.

Later that day, once all of his tasks had been completed, he returned to the royal apartments. After wishing Shireen good night, he went right back to his own room. The day had worn him out, and spending even just a moment with his wife was the last thing he wanted. His marital duty could wait.

Once in the solitude of his bedchamber, with two white knights outside of it standing guard, he breathed a sigh of relief. That was the only place in the Red Keep were he felt he could relax. Unless something unexpected happened, something which required his immediate attention, the daily tasks of running a realm could wait until the next morning. He took a sip of lemon water from the cup he found near the bed, changed into his night clothes, and went to sleep.

That was when something happened. A strange numbness took hold of his body, similar yet at the same time different from what happened right before falling asleep. Stannis paid it no heed, and turned on his left side.

Only, he couldn't move.

 _What?_ His limbs stood still. _What is happening?_ It was as if his entire body had frozen. He tried to lift his head. Nothing happened. _Why can't I move?_

That was when he heard a strange noise from somewhere behind his bed. Small footsteps followed, and then a child appeared on his right. He had never seen that child. It was a skinny boy, around Shireen's age, wearing dirty grey rags.

He tried to ask the boy who he was and how he had managed to enter the room, but somehow his lips wouldn't move.

It was only then that Stannis noticed that the boy was holding a dagger in his hand.

 _What..._ He tried again to move, but to no avail. What had happened? Why couldn't he move? He tried to at least moan in order to alert his kingsguards, but even that was beyond his current condition. The boy slowly approached him.

And then, the blade came as fast as a lightning. It stabbed Stannis through the chest, sending ripples of pain throughout his body. He managed to take one last look at the child's emotionless face before the darkness swallowed him.

 **XXXXXX**

 **Varys**

 _I will never get used to this heat,_ he thought. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his robe.

"Is the Dornish sun too hot for you, Lord Spider?" Oberyn Martell snickered from his left. "Maybe you are too used to stay in the shadows."

"Oberyn!" Prince Doran said. "Please, forgive my brother, Lord Varys. He is an impulsive man, and has never managed to resist the urge to jape."

"Your brother isn't wrong, my prince. The sun of your beautiful land is actually hotter than what I am used to." he answered diplomatically. "And anyway, Prince Oberyn, you would do well to remember that a spider's bite can be dangerous to anyone. Even vipers." If the Dornishman wanted a clash of words, Varys would give him one.

Prince Oberyn just looked at Varys and gave him that irritating smile of his. "Perhaps you are right."

Varys took a couple of deep breaths, doing his best to keep his calm and cold appeareance. Oberyn Martell had been testing his nerves like nobody had ever done. He had the slight impression that he didn't like him. Well, the feeling was mutual. The Red Viper of Dorne was a man whose arrogance could be matched only by Tywin Lannister's. Prince Doran, on the other hand, was a good man who got along splendidly with Varys.

"How much until their arrival?" asked Princess Arianne, standing near her father with her two younger brothers, a bored look on her beautiful face.

"It should be just a matter of minutes, my lady." He hoped so, at least. Ships almays met delays on their route, that was known. He hoped they would come soon, though, so that he could go somewhere a little fresher. The Water Gardens, maybe. Varys liked that place. It was an architectural wonder and a beauty to feast the eyes on, and it reminded him of his home city of Lys.

The Dornish princess crossed her arms over her large chest and snorted. "I hope you are right. I hate waiting for too long." Her brothers nodded along, together with other members of their welcome party. Varys understood how they felt. He, too, was growing tired of waiting. He had been doing that for longer than any of them.

However, it was all going to end soon. Everything he and Illyrio had done before and after Varys' arrival in Westeros, so many years ago, had been leading to this very moment. All the schemes they had plotted, all the information and misinformation they had spread, all the assassinations they had ordered, were finally going to pay off. There had been a few obstacles along the road, but nothing that couldn't be overcome. And now, with Stannis gone, their plan had entered the final stage. After decades of waiting, the black dragons would get what was rightfully theirs.

A few moments later, a small shape appeared on the distant horizon. "Ship incoming!" shouted someone.

"It's them." he said.

"Everybody, prepare to greet our guests." said Prince Doran. Silence followed as the ship approached the docks their were all standing on. As it stopped, an anchor was dropped. Varys waited as distant voices barked orders. Then, people started to disembark. First, a few hedge knights and some men of the Golden Company, their armors shining in the Dornish sun. And then, when the procession of armed men had ended, him. The one they had all been waiting for. Varys heard someone gasp behind him. He quietly smiled, and went to greet the newcomer.

"Welcome back home, Your Grace."

 **THE END**

 _ **AN:**_ _And here it is, ladies and gentlemen. The last chapter. I almost can't believe my own eyes as I write these words. The last chapter. It seems like yesterday that I began to write this fic. It's been a pleasant experience. I enjoyed writing the various characters and experimenting with their POVs. Also, I learned a lot of things, and hopefully my next fic will be better._

 _I hope you enjoyed the story. Thanks to all of you, dear readers. Your liking means a lot to me. Thanks to those who read the whole story, those who have stayed with me since the beginning, and even those who left. And most importantly, thanks to those who left a constructive critic in their comment. You can't even begin to imagine how useful it's been._

 _Speaking of which, if it's not asking too much, could you please leave a comment where you explain what you liked and disliked the most about the story? (your favorite POV character, the stuff you hated, things you think I could have done differently)_

 _Now, as for my next projects: there's a lot of stuff going through my mind, but I can already tell you that my next fic will be another AU, titled "The king is dead, long live the king", where Aerys dies at Duskendale. I already started working on it, and it should see the light around late January/early February. I hope to see you again there._

 _(And before I forget, I'm not writing a sequel to this story, even though the ending is open to one)_

 _That's all for now. See you soon, dear readers, and thanks again!_


	27. Omake

**Omake: For want of a fart**

 _Gods, what a shitty way to die..._

Tyrion closed his eyes and prepared himself for when his body would finally hit the rocks. He emptied his head and tried to think of something happy, then he relaxed himself.

Perhaps he did a little too much of that, for just a few seconds later, he heard a strange noise. It sounded like a crack of tunder, and it came right from behind his back.

 _ **PROOOOOOTTTTTTTTTTTT**_

He had just farted! Tyrion couldn't believe that such an horrendous noise could come from his behind. And the smell...gods, the smell was even worse. What in seven hells had he eaten to produce something like this?

It was then that he realized something else. He wasn't falling anymore. Instead, he was somehow floating in mid-air.

 _ **PROOOOOOTTTTTTTTTTTT**_

There was another flatulence. Tyrion's body moved forward, until he arrived just to the point he had fallen from earlier. A smile formed on his face as he understood what had just happened.

He could fly with his farts!

Tyrion forced his rear to produce another fart. If he could fly like that, then he could leave that accursed place and fly away to safety!

The fart came, as loud as the first one and even more powerful. Tyrion found himself flying at the speed of light beyond the borders of the Vale. He also found himself pinching his nose in disgust. The smell was even worse, this time!

So worse, in fact, that in just a few moments it spread to the entirety of Westeros. It was so nauseous that all the soldiers marching toward the Riverlands covered their noses in disgust and ran back home as if they had the Stranger himself at their backs. It also had the side effect of causing a mass death among the Others and their undead slaves. When Tyrion finally ended his journey, landing at Casterly Rock, he found thousands and thousands of people from all over the Seven Kingdoms singing his praise and thanking him for saving them. Such was their gratitude, that he was promptly made High King of Westeros, with Daenerys Targaryen, Margaery Tyrell and Sansa Stark fighting for the privilege of being his queen. Euron Greyjoy recognized Tyrion's superiority and killed himself, while Lord Tywin apologized for all the years of mistreatments and abuses. Tyrion had him bound to a chair and forced to listen to a reading of the entire 50 Shades series.

Tyrion watched all this from the Iron Throne and smiled, drinking cup after cup of wine. He couldn't be happier. He had gone from being a hated and mocked dwarf, to being the monarch of Westeros.

And it had all happened for want of a fart.


End file.
